God Complex
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: Someday Michael was going to realize that this wasn't his little universe to control. Someday something would throw him for a loop and he wouldn't be able to do anything about it. But not this mission.
1. Chapter 1

Title: God Complex

Disclaimer: I do not own Chaos.

A/N: This fic is for penless, who may have discovered Chaos love late, but some things are better late than never :) However, somehow her three word prompt made me write 90k. Therefore, I'm posting this in parts just so I can maintain my sanity while posting. The plot may be sketchy because I don't know anything about real CIA missions, but that's the way it is when I write :) Also, this has 13 chapters that vary in length and this one ended up being really long because apparently I needed to write exposition! Chapters should be up twice a week, Thursdays and Mondays, assuming I don't forget!

A/N 2: Beta kindly provided by penless. Who deserves serious props for cleaning up my mess! I'm still glad this didn't disappoint!

Summary: Someday Michael was going to realize that this wasn't his little universe to control. Someday something would throw him for a loop and he wouldn't be able to do anything about it. But not this mission.

-o-

Michael was a creature of habit.

He considered this to be a matter of self-discipline, which was a critical element to success. More than that, it was essential to stay alive. Michael had learned early on that to get the job done he needed to control the elements. A successful mission was one that was thoroughly prepped, planned, and performed. He'd seen too many of his colleagues suffer in the aftermath.

It had only taken one of his own missions to run afoul before he learned that his best wasn't good enough.

So Michael was better. He had always been vigilant – even as a child he'd been prone to organizational fits, carefully putting his schoolwork in order to ensure the maximum efficiency.

Needless to say, he didn't have a lot of friends. But given his academic prowess he hadn't figured he needed them. Now that he was in the CIA he saw even less need for casual friends, which had always been something that bothered Fay. Still, Michael had found acquaintances to be more trouble than they were worth, ends he couldn't tie off in his big picture.

Now that he was divorced he didn't even pretend. He kept his home simple and comfortable, sorting his things to create an efficient lifestyle, both personally and professionally. There wasn't much differentiation now. Sure, he watched some sports on TV and had been known to read the latest best seller when he had the time, but the intelligence community didn't live by any kind of normal business hours. When he got tips, when he took calls, when information came in, Michael was ready to deal with it. At home or at work, and his home was even more comfortable to work in than his desk.

Routines just made things easier. Getting up at the same time was practical. Maintaining the same order simply made sense. He had perfected by this point and he saw no need to impose change outside of the varying demands of his job.

That was the point, after all. If he created the right structure, he could easily accommodate whatever his job threw at him. Considering the myriad of dangerous and top secret missions he'd organized that was more important than most people probably realized. He didn't want to be facing down terrorists while worrying about whether or not he had left the kitchen stove on.

As a creature of habit, such concerns were superfluous. He always turned the stove off because it was just another part of his routine.

Casey admired the efficiency but questioned the lack of personal indulgence. Billy mused that he probably had enough obsessive-compulsive tendencies to make a psychiatrist salivate. Rick had not been invited into that part of his life just yet because, well, Michael was a creature of habit and Rick was still the new guy. It had only been after Simms had disappeared that Billy had gotten the first invitation, and that had been less an invitation than a drunken escapade, the details of which Billy fortunately didn't remember and Casey was inclined to keep more guarded that national secrets.

Yet, that ultimately was the beauty of a good routine. It made space for uncontrollable deviations without the entire system collapsing.

At least, that was Michael's theory. And since he didn't feel inclined to explain himself to anyone, there was no one to question him on it, especially since Billy and Casey most certainly did not count in this case. If they tried, Michael could more than easily point out that Casey's suppressed anger and grief made him a walking time bomb and that Billy's effusive facades were a classic case of well-entrenched denial.

And there was no need to worry about Martinez. Not yet, anyway. Michael was fairly confident that he could still leverage fear to keep the younger operative in line; if not, then the supposedly inestimable weight of team brotherhood would do its job. He had a few more years before the kid recognized that with such trust came no boundaries, even if Michael pretended otherwise.

None of this was actually the point, though. The point was that Michael got up at the same time, went on the same jog, ate the same breakfast and did his job. When he got home he took off his shoes and put on a pair of white socks, shuffling around the house while he checked all his bases: the mail, his phones, his email accounts, his news feed. If nothing piqued his concern he'd nuke something for dinner, read a book and call it a night.

But tonight something piqued his interest.

It was in his email, sent to one of his front accounts that he used for his network of correspondents in eastern Africa. It was one of his more active accounts, accordingly; Nigeria had been a hotbed of activity. Most of it wasn't exactly relevant to Agency concerns, but Michael still preferred to be apprised of all terrorist activities and sectarian clashes, especially when innocent people were dying. Ignorance was not bliss for him, and even if there was nothing directly he could do he still liked to know.

Only this time, reading the email, it occurred to him there _was _something he could do.

The note was from a contact. The man had fed them some intel over the years, but nothing much, in exchange for a pittance of monetary compensation. The intel had been good but minimal, but this time Michael gave the note a second look.

The violence he reported was much the same – similar targets and death counts – but the exact method was of interest because the victims weren't just killed with regular guns. These were high-grade military guns, the kind usually only seen by the army.

But the Nigerian army wasn't involved, which meant the guns had been purchased elsewhere.

Which meant that one of the factions had a new buyer.

Which meant that something had shifted.

The effectiveness of the new weaponry was a marked improvement, because Michael knew the makes and models well. More than that, if someone had access to these guns they had access to a whole lot more. This indicated a likely escalation of violence with more damage and casualties than ever before.

All things considered, this still wasn't necessarily an Agency concern, but something to pass along, no doubt. To be put in the coffer with the rest of the intelligence on the status of terrorist organizations around the world. But without a direct American tie…

Except Michael knew these guns. American guns.

Someone from America was supplying these weapons.

Weapons shipments got knocked off from time to time and theft was a real problem around the world, especially in high tension, remote bases. But something to this scale suggested something more sinister. It suggested that someone was siphoning off weaponry, someone on the inside. It meant there was a leak in the American military's supply lines.

Of course, this was all just speculation based on a few notes from an old and somewhat uninteresting asset.

Michael would have to look into it.

Sighing, he pushed his glasses up his nose. So much for Tom Clancy; it was going to be all research for the night.

-o-

In the morning, Michael still woke up at the same time. He still took his morning jog. He still ate his breakfast and he still picked up Billy.

Carpooling with Billy had been something of a concession when it came to his routine. After all, the Scot was not exactly reliable in the day-to-day details. He had a tendency to be late and didn't seem to notice when he dropped crumbs from his to-go pastry all over the front of Michael's car.

But Michael liked saving on gas money, so he was inclined to tolerate it. Plus, before he'd insisted on driving together Billy had sometimes failed to show up until noon and had had this annoying tendency to get lost on the way to work, waylaid at coffee shops, grocery stores, and other places that Michael couldn't quite fathom.

Sure, Billy had still always gotten the job done – better than he had any right to, considering – but knowing where the Scot was during work hours had been one less thing for Michael to worry about in the grander scheme of things.

Still, that didn't mean Michael had to like it.

Billy, true to form, made him wait a few minutes before he came out, nursing a cup of coffee while he tried to finagle his suit jacket on one-handed. He sat down heavily in the seat, some of the hot liquid splashing onto his pants and the seats of Michael's car.

"You're staining the upholstery again," Michael chided.

Billy took a greedy sip and put the cup in the center console as he pulled on his seatbelt. "You drive a ten year old Taurus, not exactly a luxury car by your own very wise admission," Billy reminded him.

Michael glowered as he pulled the car out into traffic. "That doesn't give you free license to abuse it," he said contrarily.

Billy was thoroughly nonplussed as he picked up the cup again. "Do I detect an unusually foul mood from you this morning?" he asked. "Not problems with the neighbors again, I hope."

Michael shot him a glare. "No, because they moved out ever since you and Casey stopped by to _visit_," he said.

Billy took a sip, unable to hide his grin. "It is not our fault that they built their hot tub within full view of your bathroom window," he said. "Besides, I've been told that what they witnessed of my fine physique would be worth money in some parts of the world."

"I think it was Casey's performance," Michael said.

Billy shuddered. "Yes, I do believe that would be enough to make me move, too," he said. He took a drink. "So if not your neighbors, then to what do I owe your less than savory mood?"

"My mood is fine," Michael said, far too aware of how terse he sounded. He could probably hide it better, but with Billy it didn't matter much anyway.

"You're a right bastard and a horrible liar when it comes to this morning commute," Billy gauged knowingly. He sat back in his seat, brow furrowed thoughtfully. "No, if I didn't know better, I'd wager that you managed to find yourself a mission."

It wasn't a surprising deduction. Despite his obvious efforts to appear oblivious, Billy had one of the sharpest minds Michael had ever known. He was quick with conclusions and easily cut through pretenses to understand the heart of things. This was what allowed him to charm people so easily: he could sense what they wanted even when they didn't know they wanted it. His ability to discern the unconscious whims of others was a powerful asset in the field.

It was slightly less convenient when it came to a friend. But since Michael's friends were few and far between, he figured beggars really couldn't be choosers in this case.

Still, that didn't mean that Michael was about to admit to anything. He'd been working for the CIA long enough to know the power of a staunch denial.

Settling back easily in the seat, Michael shrugged as nonchalantly as he could. "Maybe," he said.

Billy turned on him, eyes bright. He lifted one hand, pointing at Michael knowingly. "No, no," he said. "I know that look. That look of unadulterated contentment at the notion of putting a plan in motion." He nodded in satisfaction. "You, Michael Dorset, have found us a mission."

Michael was good under pressure, but he found the Scot's enthusiasm difficult to resist. "I _might _have a case," Michael relented, "assuming I can get approval."

That was the caveat, and although Michael said it like it mattered the ODS had never been exactly strict on doing this by the book. Approval, in Michael's mind, was a nice safety net but by no means his top priority.

But things were harder than they used to be at the Agency. Higgins was on them; getting a mission, especially one that had the potential to go belly up real fast, approved under these circumstances was probably smart.

"Ah," Billy said, nodding while looking out the windshield. "From the lovely Fay, no doubt. Now your reticence makes perfect sense."

Michael sighed, eyes on the road as he navigated through the morning traffic. "So that's why I only _might _have a case," he confirmed.

"Ah," Billy said, taking a long drink and making a face. "You know, this was far easier before your paranoid ways drove her to divorce."

Michael glared, giving the Scot a deadly look. "No, this was easier when you were still a respected member of the British Secret Service but we know how well that turned out."

Billy feigned hurt, his blue eyes radiating in an all too effective hangdog expression. "That hurts, Michael."

Smirking, Michael kept his eyes on the road. "The truth often does."

It wasn't an uncommon repartee. Billy's deportation was a touchy topic; so was Michael's divorce. But they shared a common bond that went deeper than that, and they had bled and cried together, so a few rough jokes at each other's expense was all par for the course. After all, they didn't have to use sentimentality to show each other they cared; sometimes, a well timed joked said it all the same.

The act was comfortable, familiar. And incredibly well honed.

Billy was almost pouting. "You really are insufferable in the early stages of mission formation, aren't you?"

Michael assumed an air of indifference. "Maybe I'm just insufferable around you," he suggested pointedly.

Billy scoffed. "Now I know that to be entirely false," he said, turning wide, earnest blue eyes to Michael with undue affectation. "You love me."

Lesser men and nearly all women would have caved. Many had, and Michael had seen it more than once. Billy had this way about him that Michael only resisted from years of over exposure and a detailed look at his MI6 file. "You're delusional," he said with confidence.

Billy's grin was impish. "You're not nearly as good at lying as you think you are," he said. "That's why you leave the finesse in the field for more talented operatives."

Michael took a turn carefully but scowled at Billy out of the corner of his eye. "You better watch it or I'll send you in to pitch this to Fay," he threatened.

It was an apt threat. Billy held up his hands, coffee sloshing dangerously. "I relent quite readily," he said. "I'd rather take a verbal trouncing than have to face down the cynical wrath of your ex-wife."

This was, of course, the point of Michael's threat. Somehow, it still made him feel defensive. "It's not so bad," he said.

Billy shifted, jiggling his knees restlessly as Michael stopped at a red light. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but do we need to relive the details of your failed marriage?" he asked, and this time the incredulity was reasonable by Michael's estimation.

Still, Michael had to smirk because Billy had a lot on him – this was true – but Michael had more in return. Trust could be earned at the Agency, but a little blackmail was usually pretty handy, too. "Only if you want to relive the details of your failed MI6 career," he offered with not-so-gentle openness.

Below the belt? Possibly.

Effective? Definitely.

After all, it would never be said that Michael hadn't earned his place as fearless leader of the right bastards. Because he most certainly had and, this morning, even Billy would agree.

-o-

When they finally got to work, Michael was in a good mood. Frustrating as it was, Billy was actually right about him. He was insufferable in the early stages of planning a mission. He was obsessed and focused, unnaturally attuned to details. This made him difficult to be around, and he'd been known to ignore people and snap at commonplace distractions. He barely stopped to eat until the planning was complete; he was simply too focused to be hungry.

This made Casey weary. The older operative appreciated focus but he believed in a certain amount of indulgence in his daily routine. Billy found it altogether unworkable, his carefree attitude completely at odds with Michael's intensity. Rick was still too new to get in the way, which was fine with Michael.

The thing was that Michael liked it that way. It was invigorating, enlivening. He didn't consider himself an adrenaline junkie, but there was no way he could deny the rush of making a plan come together.

Hell, it even made him okay with quoting 80s TV icons without irony in application to his own life.

Not even his team could begrudge him that.

Of course, not even his team could sit idly by while he attacked his research, which was why he was not surprised to look up for the first time in the mid morning and find himself alone.

Vaguely, he remembered an incident with paper airplanes, a few threats of violence, and something about coffee. Beyond that, though, things were a bit hazy and, he decided, really pretty irrelevant. There was always an inherent risk when Billy and Casey were let out in the halls of the CIA with nothing much to preoccupy them, but he had to hope that Rick's status as a nervous newbie would help keep them in check.

Knowing Billy and Casey, though, it was likely to have the opposite effect, especially if Casey believed that baptism by fire was a good means of further acclimating Martinez to their less than conventional ways. And Billy – well, Billy would be as good as Billy could be until his muse came up with something.

Which meant Michael was better off not thinking about his team for the moment and focusing on the problem at hand.

It wasn't exactly a problem, though. He didn't like to conceive missions based on problems. He preferred to gauge them as possibilities, opportunities even. They all had the potential to divert disaster and peril, strengthening national security and otherwise promoting world accord.

In this case, arms dealing.

Not an uncommon target for the CIA, because sure, guns didn't kill people, people do, but the fact was that weapons made it a whole lot easier. Noting the uptick in violence and weaponry suggested a few notable things. First, it was a sign of increased organization; an inherent upping of the stakes that was worth taking stock of. Sectarian violence throughout the world was something of an inevitability but the more power any single cell amassed, the greater the risk that their ambitions would extend beyond their small scale foes.

The cell in question hadn't seemed likely for this kind of upgrade. After scrolling through some chatter in a few documents he'd rounded up, Michael came to see that there had been a shifting of leadership following an assassination within the organization. The newest leader, Mueng Sunday, had the typical backstory from what Michael could glean from Agency records. His file was no more or less impressive than most people in his station.

Except, he had a sister. And the sister was married. To a former Marine.

Wendell Vaughan had served a stint in Iraq after being stationed in Africa, where he met his wife. He was honorably discharged a short time later, marrying and settling in his wife's hometown in Nigeria.

Coincidence, perhaps.

Except Michael didn't really believe in coincidence.

Some digging on Vaughan hadn't been overly informative. He was adept at what he did and there had never been much else to note. He'd seen some combat but there was no notation of problems. There also was no note of any exceptional commitment either.

What was noted, however, was that he was a munitions expert. He had extensive knowledge of the weaponry, especially the ones used in the recent attacks in Nigeria.

Again, possibly a coincidence, but the more coincidental it seemed, the less likely Michael was to believe it.

No, in his mind he was painting a different story.

Wendell Vaughan was an average guy with average goals and average temptations. Maybe he fell in love with his wife first; maybe he fell in love with an opportunity. Michael wasn't sure, but it didn't actually matter a lot. The fact was he married a woman with ties to violence and then his wife's family started moving up in the ranks, thanks largely to weaponry Vaughan had extensive knowledge of and likely access to.

Except he'd been discharged. Which meant that Vaughan wasn't working alone.

This was harder to pinpoint and Michael had to make more than a few calls before he found someone who remembered Vaughan enough to comment. Seemed like Vaughan had kept to himself, just having a few close friends. Mostly a guy named Gregory Jenkins.

Jenkins, Michael discovered, was still active in the Marines. Mostly in charge of munitions, handling shipments for one of the units based in North Africa. Unlike Vaughan, Jenkins had a few reports against him. Nothing too serious but enough to show him to be a guy with questionable morals. He wasn't serving his country for the honor in it, but for the stability. The big guns and the lack of other opportunities in life probably had something to do with it, too.

The strange thing was that Jenkins' CO suggested the man had had a recent improvement in attitude and behavior. He was surprisingly dedicated.

This made sense, Michael figured, if he was starting to funnel off part of the shipments. He was bound to be happier making money on the side and he was bound to be vigilant if he was doing something illegal.

This was all speculation, but pretty good speculation. All he needed was an in. To this end, Michael really had three options. He could start at the most accessible point, which was with the newly armed terrorists. It would be the easiest place to start, especially if the implications regarding Vaughan were faulty.

However, getting involved that far down the line would ensure that the mission would only be reconnaissance in nature, and worse, it could possibly tip off Vaughan and Jenkins, therefore proving irrelevant.

Going to Jenkins, on the other hand, wouldn't exactly be easy or even possible. That fell under a different jurisdiction entirely and Michael wasn't opposed to crossing a few jurisdictional lines, but messing with the American military was low on his list of things to do. Besides, while going to Jenkins would plug the proverbial hole in the dam it would have limited impact on the terrorist organizations he was supplying. He probably didn't even know all the ins and outs of where the munitions he siphoned went, making him the top of the food chain but not the best link at dismantling worldwide terrorism.

Which meant that Vaughan was their best best. The middle man had access to supply and distribution. Nabbing him would be the maximum benefit.

Sitting back, Michael took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He rolled his neck and took a few deep breaths. He had a goal in sight, but now he needed a way to get there. He could sit there and plan it out himself, but he'd found that the best execution came from joint cooperation. Which meant that it was time to bring in the team.

-o-

It wasn't hard to find them. Rick was reading files in the break room; Casey was in the gym. Billy was in a supply closet, rearranging the paper clips and staplers.

It was harder to get them to come back. Rick seemed wary. He was an excitable operative with good intentions to save the world, but after six months on the ODS he had perhaps learned that missions borne from Michael's so-called fevered brain were somewhat less than normal.

Casey was exasperated at the notion, but it was more affectation than genuine feeling. Casey was exasperated with life overall, but he liked missions. He especially liked Michael's missions for the unique challenges they often presented.

Billy acknowledged the value of missions but he was hard pressed to leave his office supplies. He agreed to come but bartered with Michael to let him bring two staplers and a paper cutter back for his troubles.

By the time he had them corralled around the table in their office Michael had to remind himself that, contrary to appearances, his team was really the best the CIA had to offer. If not, they were still the best Michael had so beggars couldn't be choosers. Especially in times of economic uncertainty and worldwide instability.

Still, their response was less than encouraging.

"So you want to take us to Africa and make friends with a likely US traitor supplying illegal arms to combatant groups?" Casey asked.

Rick looked back through the makeshift pile Michael had xeroxed. "He looks like he's pretty well established," Rick said. "Getting an in will be hard."

"And Africa's so hot this time of year," Billy said contrarily.

Michael eyed them each with something just shy of disdain. He didn't really hate them - this was part of their process - but sometimes Michael understood why Higgins sometimes vied to cut their jobs. They were pains in the ass.

"It'll get hotter if we don't cut the supply line," Michael said.

"And generally subverting terrorism is in our job description," Casey relented.

Billy sighed. "Fine," he muttered. He lifted a finger in warning. "But when you all pit out your clothing don't come crying to me, because my only sympathy will be a staunch I-told-you-so."

"But we still need an in," Rick pointed out.

"Which is where our meeting really starts," Michael said. "Ideas?"

"We could pose as buyers," Casey said. "I think the best covers are the simplest ones."

"But it could tip him off," Rick said. "I mean, he's new to this, right?"

"And newly minted criminals do tend to be a bit more jumpy about their illicit ways," Billy agreed.

"That leaves supplying," Casey said.

"You think we could try to tempt him away from Jenkins?" Rick asked.

"Not likely," Michael said.

"No," Billy said in due agreement. "To be properly engendered we need to partner with him in his criminal pursuits." Billy gestured widely. "Offer him a service to ease his burden."

Michael's mind lighted on this possibility immediately. "He has secured shipment from the source to his location," he remembered.

"So what if we can provide improved movement from his location to the various other outlets?" Casey said.

Michael nodded, the loose ends starting to tie together in his mind. "Chances are he's using local carriers, which makes him nervous," he said. "If we can come in as Americans – brothers in arms, of sorts – we may have our in."

He went over it again, hashing out the details. There were risks involved, of course, and they'd need to forge ironclad covers, probably with military backgrounds, which wouldn't be easy. They'd have to get some military backing for the go ahead, which meant more red tape that Michael disliked, but if they could pull a few favors they wouldn't need to read the military in necessarily.

Michael could retain control, and they could still determine the extent of Vaughan's operation and just how Jenkins was managing to steal from the United States military.

His team was watching him. Looking at them, Michael nodded. "So do you think we have a mission?"

Rick looked at Casey, who shrugged. Billy sighed. "You already bloody knew you had one when you picked me up for work this morning," he said. He held his hand out to the door. "Now all that's left is Fay."

Michael grimaced a little.

"She'll say yes," Rick said. "It's too important a mission."

"Spoken like a truly naïve operative," Casey snorted. He pushed up and moved back to his desk. "Let us know how badly she flays you when you come back."

Billy shrugged. "Or just keep your face with that unyielding expression of tortured hope you always have after talking to her so we know that things went pretty much as suspected," he said.

Michael glared but didn't disagree as he gathered his files back up. "Thank you all for that vote of confidence," he said.

Rick blinked at him. Casey smirked. Billy lifted his fingers to salute as he spun in his chair.

Michael rolled his eyes and figured it was time to jump out of the frying pan and right into the fire.

-o-

Fire was an apt metaphor for his relationship with Fay but he still always found her office cold. Probably because she made a clear effort to shut him out of her life. She liked to think he just didn't understand how divorce worked, but the contrary was true. Michael was too aware of how it worked; he just refused to accept it.

He loved Fay, and he didn't make his commitments lightly. When they said until death do they part Michael had taken it seriously, even if it meant enduring her cold shoulders. He simply counted his so-called blessings that he got to be close to her at all.

Plus, she liked it. She would never admit to it but it was true, and Michael took more than some pleasure in that.

More than that, it often worked in his favor. Not that he used her soft spot for him to his own benefit. That would just be proving Fay's statement of divorce as justified, which wasn't even remotely possible.

Still, facts were facts.

So when he sat down across from Fay, smiling broadly at her, he simply leveraged the facts to his advantage and attempted to look as much like an over-eager puppy as it was possible for a grown man.

She returned his enthusiasm with a dubious look. "What do you want?" she asked.

"Seeing you isn't enough?" he asked coyly.

She lifted her eyebrows. "It may be enough for a restraining order," she mused.

"Ah," Michael said. "I love it when you talk rough with me."

She sighed. "Did you have a point, Michael?" she asked. "Or are you just here to remind me why marrying you was a mistake?"

That one stung a little, so Michael tossed the file on her desk. It was rough but it was better than most of the files he threw her way. "I need approval."

Cautiously, she eyed it. "Is this one that I'm going to have to stick my neck out for you?"

He shook his head. "It's entirely legitimate," he said. "A bit high risk but I think you'll find it well worthwhile."

Curiosity colored her expression as she picked up the file and opened it. "Sectarian violence in Africa," she said. "And here I thought you'd mellow in your old age."

He smiled back at her. "Keep reading; it gets better."

She flipped through, inclining her head. "Gun smugglers," she said, a bit surprised. "From the military."

"To supply possible terrorist acts against citizens," Michael concluded, more than somewhat proud. "It's a complete trifecta – a slam dunk."

Fay closed the file and looked at him. "Definitely sounds like a case," she agreed.

Michael dared to let his heart skip a beat.

Her smile turned wry. "For the United States Military."

Michael's heart crashed to his stomach. Sinking back in his chair, he groaned, shaking his head.

"But you knew that," she concluded. "That's why you're here with your tail between your legs, like you want something from me."

Michael didn't bother denying it. "If you send us in, we can take down the operation at the source and the network."

"Jurisdictional lines are pretty clear," Fay said.

Michael shook his head, sitting up again and scooting closer to her desk. "And if you give this one to the military they'll clamp it down too quickly and we'll lose the leads on the network that's being supplied."

"Cut off the head of the snake," Fay said with a shrug.

"Normally, I'd agree with you," he said. "But not in this case."

Her look in return was withering.

He opted to try the sincere approach. "We can save more lives doing it our way," he said. "And you know I have friends in high places; you know I can get the backing for this."

She shook her head, clearly reluctant. "Michael…"

"Please," he said, doing his best to implore her now.

Her eyes narrowed. "You just don't like the idea of someone else taking your mission," she said.

Truth was sometimes indisputable but he also knew that it also wasn't always relevant. "Just read the file," he said. "And let me know."

She didn't want to say yes. The ex-wife in her wanted to send him packing. But he was right, and Fay hadn't trusted him in their marriage vows but she'd always trusted him in the field.

She held out for a long moment before she sighed. "Fine," she said, shaking her head in frustration.

Michael brightened. "Thank you."

Pursing her lips, she squared her shoulders. "It's not for you," she reminded him.

"Whatever you say," he said.

She rolled her eyes in exasperation and Michael left with a smile on his face before she could change her mind.

-o-

Walking back into the ODS office was never as reassuring as Michael figured it should be. He knew they were the best and brightest the CIA had to offer – and he was quite fond of that _first line of defense _phrase in their mission statement – but still, seeing his team hardly instilled much confidence.

Casey looked the part well enough, he supposed, sitting there primly at his computer clicking away. He always had a grave expression; some would even call it focused. Too many wayward visitors had mistakenly thought Casey might be open to discussion, but one undesired word in the older man's direction had always elicited such ire that few people ever chose to return. Michael might object, but he didn't really care for visitors either. Still, all of this would be more impressive if Michael didn't know for a fact Casey was chasing endless links around the internet which probably had no relevance to, well, _anything._

Billy made it harder, still. The only way the Scot managed to keep his desk in some state of order was to effectively do no work. Michael would never admit that, of course, not with Higgins still gunning for their jobs, but it was true. Billy talked his way out of most paperwork and foisted the rest off on others. What little he retained for himself was covered with doodles and lines from poems Michael didn't recognize. But considering that any paper on Billy's desk is destined to become lost or otherwise destroyed, Michael tended to believe that minimizing the amount of paperwork that went his way was preferable.

Rick, for his part, actually worked, which was, of course, the most disconcerting fact of them all. He sat there at his desk, diligently going over his paperwork, scrutinizing online sources and print materials in equal turns. He would pause to straighten the memorabilia on his desk, looking every bit the part of a trained and true CIA operative. Which made him by far the weakest link.

And yet, this was his team. He trusted them with his life. The fact that they didn't look the part was really their best defense, although really, sometimes Michael wondered.

Casey looked up at him dolefully. "Back so soon?"

Billy spun in his chair, tossing his newspaper crossword on his desk. "Good news, then?"

Rick looked up from his work with curious eyes.

Michael snorted and made his way back to his desk. "She's looking into it."

Casey rolled his eyes and went back to his computer.

Billy grinned. "So we will see if the Dorset brand of paranoid charm still works its wonders," he crooned.

"She'll say yes," Michael said with as much confidence as he could muster.

Rick looked doubtful. "And why are you so sure?"

"He's not," Casey said without looking away from his computer.

"Because Michael has the strange and alluring quality of quintessential certitude, which is mysteriously impossible to resist regardless of age, race, sex or would-be marital status," Billy rejoined.

Michael smiled. "She'll say yes," he said again with even more certainty than before.

-o-

Confidence was not to be confused with immediacy, and Michael's key to success at the Agency was patience.

That, and good walking shoes.

And a healthy sense of paranoia.

But patience really did play a role, especially when a mission was still being conceived. He passed the morning going over his mission plan again, tweaking a few things in anticipation, but by lunch he was out of things to do and read the latest best seller from the library instead.

Rick went to a meeting at some point. Casey got out of a meeting at another point. Billy disbanded three meetings by his presence alone. Then, late in the day, Fay called him in.

On the way over he picked up two things of coffee. Inside her office, he placed one gallantly on her desk. "Two sugars and creamer," he announced. "Just how you like it."

Fay eyed it, clearly suspicious. "What is this for?"

He sat back, smiling grandly as he took a sip of his own. "Consider it a preemptive thank you for getting me mission approval."

She hesitated, wetting her lips slightly. "I wouldn't give it to me just yet, then."

Michael refused to show weakness. "Oh, come on," he said. "It's a slam dunk."

Fay lifted up the file and pushed it back to him. "I know," she said. "It's definitely a case the government is interested in pursuing but there's a few catches."

Michael reached out and snagged the file. "What kind of catches?"

She took a breath. "Mostly what you expected," she said. "The military wants some control in how this goes down. I talked them out of handling it internally but they wouldn't budge on retaining overall mission clearance."

Michael shook his head. "You know we don't work this way," he said.

"Well, this time you have to," she said. "And it's not as bad as you think. They'll allow you to be in the field but you'll report directly at the commander at the closest military base."

Michael was sitting up now, and glancing over the amended file Fay had given him. "No," he said, insistently. "I'll call them in for transport when we make arrests, but the mission is mine."

Fay sighed wearily. She had anticipated this conversation and had her answers ready. "They just want to know what you're doing and where," she explained. "You've relied on military support countless times in the past. I know for a fact you've done missions in conjunction with them before."

"Not on this level," Michael said. "If we start making military contact, people are going to get nervous and the entire thing will be compromised."

Lips pursed, Fay set her jaw. "That's not what this is about."

Michael made a face. "That's exactly what this is about."

"Oh," she said with raised eyebrows. "So you're not just throwing a hissy fit because you don't get to play God all by yourself this time?"

Michael's chest puffed up. "It's my mission."

Her expression was rueful. "No, it's the CIA's mission."

"And you're letting things get bogged down in the name of inter-agency cooperation."

Her eyes sparked. "And you're letting yourself be blinded by misplaced pride and overzealous ownership."

Michael didn't get ruffled often; it was against his nature and usually didn't serve much purpose. But Fay had an effect on him that no one else had, and when she challenged him, he always felt the need to rise to the occasion. He stiffened defiantly and didn't back down. "This is my mission," he said again, more forcefully now. "I can do it best. My team can do it best. And we work alone."

She deflated a little, but didn't relent. "All you have to do is play nice with others, open a few lines of communication," she said in conciliation. "Though I do know how hard that is for you."

Michael scoffed. "Don't bring your personal feelings into this."

"Oh, you mean like you didn't bring your personal feelings into this by asking me for this favor?"

"This has nothing to do with us," Michael snapped.

"Maybe not," she returned without missing a beat. "But this is what it is. End of story."

She spoke with certainty and finality. It was as much of an order as Michael had ever been given.

Too bad Michael never listened to orders.

Gathering the file, he got to his feet, lifting his chin. "We'll see," he said before stalking out.

-o-

His team had this annoying perceptive habit of knowing exactly what happened without being told. It was useful most of the time, although it did defy logic and most natural laws of the universe. It could also make things pretty awkward since the idea of a personal life was no longer very personal. At times like this, he sort of wished there were still some mysteries between them.

There wasn't, though. They all knew Billy drank scotch when he was lonely and composed songs when he was drunk. They all knew that Casey had the busiest social calendar of them all and woke up at 5 AM to meditate. Rick was the easiest of them all to read, and they were readily aware of his inherent gullibility and that he was, in fact, a mama's boy.

Michael didn't mind if they knew about his strict personal schedule or the route he ran every morning. But having them privy to the ins and outs of his relationship with Fay was somewhat less kosher.

But no less avoidable.

"So, bad news," Casey surmised when Michael walked back in.

Michael glared.

Billy lifted his eyebrows. "Very bad news, eh? She's getting feistier the longer the ink dries on those settlement papers."

"The mission is a go," Michael told them.

"So what's the problem?" Rick asked.

Casey regarded him coolly. "A caveat, no doubt."

"Of the most fantastic ex-wife variety," Billy added. "She didn't recommend another team, did she?"

Michael sighed. "No, she wants us to have it."

"Are you going to tell us the _but _or do we have to guess it?" Casey asked.

Michael pursed his lips. "She wants it in conjunction with the military."

"A babysitter?" Casey scoffed.

"That would probably compromise our cover if we're not careful," Rick said thoughtfully, brow creased with concern.

"It's not happening," Michael said, his defiance swelling.

"Somehow I take it Fay disagreed," Billy said.

"She thinks I'm making too big a deal out of this," Michael explained with a small huff.

"Did she play the God card?" Billy asked in commiseration.

Michael sulked.

"People always play that one like it's a bad thing," Casey said with a shake of his head. "As if omniscience, omnipotence and omnipresence is somehow a bad thing."

Rick frowned, cocking his head. "So what are we going to do?"

Michael's eyes narrowed. The plan was lurking in the back of his mind, had been since Fay pulled out her stops. He didn't like it necessarily, but the ends justified the means. Even in a case like this.

He looked at his team carefully. "There is one option left to salvage this," he said slowly, carefully.

Billy made a face. "Come now, that can't really be an option."

Casey shrugged. "It would work."

"Yes, but at what cost?" Billy said. "I've give away a great deal of my soul in this job, and I'm not sure I'm ready to sacrifice the last bit just yet."

"Would you rather have a drill sergeant mucking up our field mission?" Casey shot back.

Rick shook his head. "What's the option?"

Billy and Casey fell silent, eyes darting to Michael.

Michael kept himself carefully composed. It went against his better judgment and his natural inclinations, not to mention his well-honed sense of survival. But this was his team, his mission. And Michael would do anything to protect that.

Anything.

Grimly, he swung around, tweaking his shoulders slightly. Billy and Casey were tense, ready to flinch while Rick watched, still wonderfully oblivious.

"Higgins," Michael said, simple and matter of fact. "We take it straight to Higgins."

"Out of the frying pan—" Casey said.

"And straight into the mouth of hell," Billy concluded.

For once, Michael found the hyperbole to be painfully accurate.

-o-

He didn't go alone.

Rick was still gun-shy around the director, which made sense considering how easily the man had duped the young agent during his first day on the job. Casey found the entire thing to be a monotonous annoyance but agreed to attend for the sheer force of his presence alone. Billy perked up at the notion of bringing undue frustration to the man until Michael reminded him that they needed to procure his favor, not alienate him.

But they were a team. Where one went, they all went.

Plus, Michael ordered them. And since the ODS has never exactly been great at following orders he also threatened them with a mountain of paperwork if they didn't come.

Together, they were a formidable force. They'd taken down terrorists and righted international wrongs. So going head to head with the director of clandestine affairs really wasn't so bad.

Although, it was just as nerve wracking with an opponent as determined as any criminal or international fugitive. Technically, Higgins was on their side and they had worked successfully on more than one occasion. The ODS had done the jobs Higgins couldn't ask anyone else to do and, in return, Higgins had bailed them out of a few situations.

It was still a tenuous relationship, though. Higgins resented his lack of control over the ODS; he didn't like having to make deals to ensure things got done correctly. He respected their work but hated their methods and Michael didn't doubt that if given the chance, he'd cut the ODS loose in a minute.

Michael couldn't exactly blame him. The ODS took some pleasure in causing headaches, and they had never gone out of their way to make Higgins' job easier.

Still, when the time for uneasy alliances came Higgins was a viable option.

The trick, of course, was getting him to say yes.

"Let me get this straight," Higgins said, reclined in his chair and eyeing them carefully. He'd listened to their pitch in its entirety without much comment, and Michael knew the older man was guarding his options. "You want me to defy the wishes of the military, which has a legitimate claim to jurisdiction in this case, so you and your team can gallivant off to Africa with no supervision or restrictions in place?"

That was essentially true, but it was all in how the details were spun. Michael knew that; so did Higgins. So Michael, bolstered by his argument and his record and his team, held his head high. "No, sir," he said. "I want you to defy the wishes of the military and let my team go in and get the job done right."

Higgins looked bemused, a smile quirking his lips. "I think you're forgetting how much I abhor your methods," he said.

Michael inclined his head but didn't back down. At his side, his team didn't waver either. "I'm remembering how much you love our results," Michael countered.

"Besides," Casey added with a smirk. "It can't hurt to scratch our backs every now and then."

"Especially since we are, in return, excellent back scratchers," Billy rejoined.

Casey frowned. "You're taking the metaphor too far."

"It makes perfect sense," Billy argued.

"But it's _weird_," Casey said.

Rick cleared his throat and they all fell silent.

Michael didn't even flinch.

Higgins sighed, sitting forward and putting the file back together. "Fine," he said, holding the file back out. "But I want all your t's crossed and I's dotted on this one. Any lapse in protocol and I will personally pack your personal belongings for you and put you all on the unemployment line."

This was, of course, the result that Michael had wanted and planned for. But he had to admit he was a little surprised to get it so easily. Not that he doubted his own plotting abilities or his team's more persuasive qualities, but usually Higgins made them work a little harder for things.

Michael took the file, and paused. "That's it?" he asked.

Higgins tilted his head. "That's it."

"No additional hoops?" Michael asked.

"Not even a few more threats?" Casey added.

"Or perhaps a not so subtly veiled insinuation of impending disaster?" Billy echoed.

Higgins regarded them coolly. "Your team is annoying, reckless, and mostly more trouble than its worth," he said. "But I still have control, however slight, over you. If I sign off to the military then this thing is entirely out of my hands. When I'm about to risk an international incident I prefer to have some say in the outcome, however minor."

Michael had to smile because he understood. "For once, I think you and I agree on something," he said.

Higgins leaned back in his chair. "Yes, well, don't make me regret that now," he said.

"We'll do our best," Michael said, feeling the adrenaline start to swell in him once again.

Higgins shook his head. "That's what I'm afraid of."

-o-

The rest of the day was busy. While his team could wile away most afternoons waiting for a mission, they were all business during prep work. With this mission, there was plenty to be done. Cover documents needed to be developed: passports, travel information, background stories. The works. They needed to arrange travel, map out a plan, memorize safe havens, and procure the necessary cash.

Michael assigned the tasks and sent his men to divide and conquer. He sat down at the table in their office and laid out their materials, fine tuning the step-by-step process to prepare for all possible contingencies.

A cover of criminal background was almost harder to fabricate than a legitimate one. Criminals had their own credos and trust was not as easily won by a few fake documents. A lot of their success on this mission would hinge on making effective first contact, being effectively believable as nefarious types.

Michael could pull off nefarious if he needed to, Casey and Billy more so. Rick would be a bit trickier, but if they told him to keep his head down and translate he'd do fine. The problem would be not making it too convenient. Criminals were inherently suspicious of people coming in and offering to make life easier. So it had to seem natural; better yet, it had to be the mark's idea to forge the alliance.

This meant it had to be a matter of convenience. They had a good trace on Vaughan's activity. They knew where he frequented, which meant they knew where to hang out. If they could use a local asset to get them involved peripherally with the local gangs they'd have automatic street cred.

That should all be doable, and if Billy could sweet-talk them into getting military backgrounds it'd be even easier. Men in uniform always shared a bond, even when they were betraying their country.

Michael was plotting out the different lower level operations they could use to prove their worth to Vaughan when the door opened.

Michael didn't look up. "If it's not good news, Martinez, then you should just keep walking," he said. "I want the satellite images from Vaughan's neighborhood and from Sunday's home base. No excuses."

"No excuses?" a feminine voice asked.

Michael looked up, surprised to see Fay. She had her hands on her hips and she looked amazing.

And angry.

"Like you have no excuse for why you went behind my back and got the mission approved?" she charged.

Michael was not often cowed – not even now – but Fay always did give him reason to pause. First, because she was pretty much the most alluring woman he'd ever seen.

And second, because she was one of the few who didn't buy into his crap.

He held up a hand in placation. "I told you I'd do what I had to do," he said.

"By circumventing me and going to my boss?" she asked. "I was doing you a favor by looking into this and you do this to me?"

"I—"

She didn't let him finish. "You couldn't even trust me to do what I do best," she said. "I mean, I always knew you were a control freak, but I thought you might mellow with age. Silly me, you're just getting worse."

"Fay—"

She held up her hand and shook her head sharply. "No, I don't want to hear it," she said. "I've heard your excuses and they all boil down to the fact that you're a selfish, paranoid bastard who doesn't know when to just let someone else take responsibility."

Michael flinched at that because she had hit his soft spot. He didn't have many and he certainly never advertised them, but Fay knew him better than most. And she wasn't afraid to say the things his teammates had the courtesy to keep silent. "You know why," he said.

She shook her head. "You're delusional," she said. "You're actually delusional. Because you think you can do this better than anyone else, that if you're in control, nothing can possibly go wrong because you can plan for everything."

"I have a pretty good track record," Michael said, a bit defensively.

She scoffed. The anger gave way to incredulity. "Someday you're going to realize that this isn't your little universe to control," she said. "Someday something will throw you for a loop and you won't be able to do anything about it. And because you can't trust people, there'll be no one else there to help you pull it back together when you need it most."

It was a threat as much as it was a warning.

Michael drew himself together, keeping himself steady. "Maybe," he said. "But not this mission."

Her smile was bitter and rueful. "Let's hope not," she said. "Because two men with Marine backgrounds? An entire faction of militants in Nigeria? If this goes wrong, Michael, you'll be alone, without backup, with people who will kill you as soon as they will give you a second look."

"That's why it has to be me," he said, resolute in this.

She wet her lips. "Just keep telling yourself that," she muttered as she turned and walked away.

Alone in the office, Michael watched the empty doorway for a moment before looking back at his plans. It was all there – the asset they'd leverage, the hotel they'd stay at, the setup and the execution. Michael had covers and backgrounds and contingencies all in place to tempt Vaughan into contacting Jenkins, setting up a three way meet and one massive shipment to catch both of them and Sunday in one major coup.

It was carefully scripted, as purposefully composed as a symphony, as artfully crafted as a sculpture. It would work, Michael assured himself. It would work and Fay was wrong.

Resolved, he set back to planning because Fay had to be wrong.

-o-

To the uninformed observer, Michael's routine didn't change before a mission. He still got up at the same time, still ran the same number of miles, still ate the same frozen dinners and pored over his paperwork until bed.

That was the problem with being an uninformed observer, though. They usually got it wrong.

While the actual events in Michael's routine never wavered, the intensity was entirely different. He reread the same files fifteen times, making layers of notations and adding sticky notes for things needing amending. He studied maps and double-checked everything until he had every cover detail memorized – for himself and for his team – and all pertinent details on the mark thoroughly committed to memory. He didn't want any hesitations; not when they could make or break a mission. Not when they could be the difference between life and death.

He also took the geography of the mission to heart. He knew the city where Vaughan lived, the supply routes from there to Jenkins. He gathered as much intel as he could regarding the tribal regions, sketching out a likely layout of Sunday's compound based on satellite photos and the schematics of comparable structures.

At night, he dreamed of the mission. During his runs, he recited the details to himself. At work, he made revisions, got feedback. When he got back home, the process started all over again.

To some, this might seem obsessive. To Michael, it was necessary. If he didn't have this perfect, if he didn't know everything, if he missed something – things could go wrong. Very wrong. For national security. For his team.

Such things were simply not acceptable. Michael had endured loss before; he would not suffer it again. Not on this mission, not ever.

Fay told him he was controlling; Casey said he had a God complex. Both were true, and even if he wouldn't admit it to Fay he understood the importance of such things. Michael had to be in control of the details, because the idea of walking into a mission without a firm handle on the possible outcome was more than he could take. It was terrifying.

So Michael would study. He would plan. He would perfect.

And everything would turn out okay.

Michael would make sure of it.

-o-

They only spent a week prepping, but it felt like months. It was an odd mix of anxiety and anticipation, adrenaline from the thrill or the fear, Michael was never sure, but the end result was always the same. By the day of their departure Michael was practically vibrating.

He'd done everything he could. It was time to see this through.

"Now," he said, looking purposefully at each of his teammates. "Do we have any last questions?"

"No," Casey said. "Because you answered all our questions the last five times you asked for last questions."

"Plus, you did include an exhaustive FAQ section in the mission report," Billy said, lifting it with a look of mild disdain. "I think I've suffered from strain carrying this thing home and back."

"It is pretty thorough," Rick agreed.

"Thorough is the difference between life and death," Michael said, a little firmer than he intended.

"You're preaching to the proverbial choir," Billy said, hands up. "Though, if it must be said, young Rick here doesn't really fit that bill. Proverbially speaking, anyway."

Rick frowned.

"Sorry, lad, I've heard you sing," he said. "It's not pretty."

"It's not so bad," Rick insisted.

"For once, I have to go with Collins on this one," Casey chimed in. "I've heard dying cows sound more melodic."

"Anyway," Michael interjected harshly, waiting until they each looked back at him. "We'll be flying in two groups, so any last minute changes need to be cleared here."

Casey rolled his eyes, clearly bored. "Billy and I will be on the flight tonight, setting up as tourists."

"I'm actually quite looking forward to the tour group we booked," Billy said. "I've looked at the schedule and I think we should be able to squeeze in the jaunt in the savanna before things get too hairy."

"Naturally," Casey said. "I find that observing predators in their natural habitat encourages my stalking skills."

"It also will give you both ample opportunity to travel throughout the city without suspicion," Michael reminded them. "We need to keep tabs on Vaughan and Sunday as much as possible."

"So no to the savanna?" Billy asked.

Michael ignored him; he was kidding anyway. At least, in all the ways that mattered. Billy feigned levity but he knew his role. Even if Michael had to ask and remind and pester, he trusted Billy and Casey.

"Rick?" Michael asked, turning his attention to the youngest member of his team. He didn't doubt Rick's loyalties, but someone without as much field experience was naturally a bit more of a liability.

Rick nodded readily. "We'll be on the morning flight," he said without hesitation. "Our first order of business will be to make contact with our asset and start getting our names out there to build up our credentials. Then we'll wait for the best time make first contact and build the rest of the mission from there."

"And your cover?"

Casey sighed before Rick could answer.

Billy groaned. "We know our covers," he said, rubbing a hand through his hair. "We know the mission. We're ready, Michael. Even a paranoid bastard needs to know when to let go. Just a little."

Michael wanted to protest, but Billy's blue eyes were piercing. Casey's deadpan stare was hard to argue with. Even Rick's plaintive gaze said enough.

He sighed. "I just can't have any screw ups on the ground," he explained.

"Never fear," Billy cajoled. "This is an ODS mission."

Casey snorted. "A little screwing up is simply par for the course."

This was the truth; it was also Michael's comfort.

If it was also his curse, he wasn't about to admit it.

-o-

Michael didn't actually care very much about traveling. To some, seeing the world might be one of the most alluring reasons to become a covert operative for the CIA. After all, it looked pretty glamorous in spy novels and thriller movies. Attractive people jetting the globe, fending off evil and having hot sex with equally attractive foreigners.

Michael knew he didn't have movie star looks and while Fay had agreed to have sex with him in Paris on their honeymoon, that was about as much action as he'd managed to have overseas. He did fend off evil, but it was far less movie worthy than the entertainment industry often wanted to have people believe.

The fact was that it rarely mattered what country he was in. The sights, be they spectacular or mundane, were really an afterthought when a mission was actually going down. After all, when he was fighting for his life and trying to not get killed he wasn't exactly stopping to take pictures.

Of course, that didn't mean that he was without preferences. He liked Paris for all the obvious reasons and one might correctly suspect that missions to inner city Nigeria were not exactly high on Michael's list of favorites. It wasn't just the heat or the mosquitoes; it was the uncanny sense that everyone was packing and just looking for a reason to blow his head off.

That wasn't true, and Michael knew it on some level. But he was a paranoid bastard. The only reason he didn't suspect the same thing in France was because he figured the French had their noses too far up in the air to even consider him as a potential threat at all.

Still, a mission was a mission and Nigeria was perhaps not Michael's favorite spot, but it ultimately didn't matter. The sights and sounds of foreign cultures had ceased to amaze him after all these years. Now he could hardly remember a time when they did.

Martinez was another story entirely.

There was still something of wide-eyed wonder in the younger operative, which was as refreshing as it was frustrating. Sure, it was good to have someone around to remind him why he got into this game, to remind him that not everything in life had to be a dark and twisted mess, but really. Michael had never been _like that. _

"It's amazing," Rick mused.

Michael shook his head, hoisting his luggage out of the taxi and settling it on the curb. "No, it's not," he said.

Rick frowned, standing next to his own luggage, already on the street. "You don't even know what I'm talking about."

Michael paid the driver, who nodded politely and slammed the trunk, scurrying back toward the driver's seat. "I don't have to know," he said decidedly. "I just know it can't be amazing because there's nothing here to be amazed about."

Rick's look turned from question to frustration. "You are readily dismissing an entire culture," he said, nodding out toward the street. "It's not your stereotypical beauty but it's vibrant, real. It _is _amazing."

"It's life," Michael concluded, barely affording the busy street a glance. It looked like he expected it to, comparable to other African cities and fairly well depicted from his time on Google Maps. "And our mission is to blend in, not gawk like a tourist."

Rick scowled, looking noticeably nonchalant as an actual tour group convened up the street, lining up outside a charter bus. It took a moment, but Billy and Casey were easy to spot, especially since Michael knew to look for the Scot's tall, spiky hair and Casey's stout build. Casey was holding a map, saying with conviction, "No, I remember it very specifically, complimentary lunch on group tour days is very explicit."

Billy was snapping photos of nothing and everything.

Rick grew sullen.

Michael ignored him, pulling his luggage past him toward the hotel entrance. "Wonder and awe have their place," he said, quiet and discreet. "It's not on a mission. Not with covers at stake, not with _lives _at stake. Awe and wonder are distractions. Awe and wonder can get you killed."

For a moment, Rick looked something like a kicked puppy, hurt deep in his brown eyes. Then, Rick looked like he might hate Michael.

Michael didn't linger to see it. Instead, he kept walking, because he knew that Martinez would hate him for a second, and then he'd fall in line. Because wide-eyed wonder or not, Martinez had the makings of a good operative. Necessary detachment wasn't always his natural inclination, but he was smart enough to recognize its place.

Michael was counting on that, anyway. Just like he was counting on Casey and Billy to keep an eye on things. Like he was counting on their local asset to play his part. Michael had arranged all the pieces; now, it was time for them to come alive and play the parts Michael had scripted.

There was always a little fear in that, always a bit of hesitation. What if it didn't work out? What if something went wrong? What if there was an uncontrollable element Michael hadn't planned on? What if the asset wasn't convincing? What if Billy wasn't sufficiently charming to get close enough without being caught? What if Casey wasn't dolefully abrasive enough to fit in like a western tourist and get a glimpse of what was really going on?

What if Martinez didn't follow him?

The doubt vanished, though. Billy and Casey had set out on their own, map and camera in hand. Michael's phone had the asset on speed dial and Martinez started following him, the sound of his suitcase being rolled across the pavement behind him.

All according to plan.

Michael didn't smirk, but his chest puffed up slightly as he pulled inside, Rick right behind him. At the desk, he smiled. "Hi, I've got a reservation for Thomas Vance."

And the mission began.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks to those who read and reviewed the first part! This one is shorter and hopefully a bit more action-oriented. Notes in part one.

PART TWO

-o-

For as distracted and unproductive as his team probably seemed in the halls of the CIA offices in Langley, they were unparalleled in the field. Billy and Casey had set up an ironclad routine, taking turns with group events to scout the town while the other stayed posted back at the hotel, charting criminal movement. It didn't take long to identify some of the shady characters, and ID'ing Vaughan had been easy enough.

After a few days they had a ready rotation, with ample and ever-growing information on Vaughan's daily habits and contacts.

Billy and Casey relayed this information each night during a meeting in a neutral motel room they had rented out to a dummy name with local credentials.

"He's quite the busy man," Billy mused.

"Being a criminal is a demanding job," Casey deadpanned.

"So we're sure Vaughan's our guy?" Rick asked. Rick was more than somewhat restless, and Michael could sort of understand why. While Billy and Casey were doing the legwork, he and Rick had spent more of their time in the hotel room. They'd made a few appearances at some local criminal hotspots, but nothing more than cursory walk bys to establish presence.

Billy held the camera out. "Take a look for yourself."

Michael took the camera and Rick crowded over his shoulder to see. The first shot was of a meat market. "Unless you think he's trafficking illegal poached game, I'm not sure what—"

"Click back a few," Casey said, glancing over at Billy coolly. "Someone has an itchy trigger finger."

"Better with the camera than a gun," Billy said. He shrugged. "Besides, I can't help but be moved by the ever-flow of life in cities such as this. I mean, did you see the size of those steaks!"

"A coronary waiting to happen," Casey snarked. "And that doesn't justify all the sky shots."

"But the clouds were a perfect representation of an eagle in flight!" Billy exclaimed in his defense.

"More like a falcon," Rick said.

"Try a common raven," Casey groused. "Hardly worth the battery power."

"Says a man with no appreciation for art," Billy said petulantly.

Michael rolled his eyes a little and tuned them out when he found the surveillance photos. Sure enough, Vaughan was meeting with all the well known names. There were even shots with him and Sunday, looking more than a little chummy.

"How do we know he's not just hanging around with his brother-in-law?" Rick clarified.

"Keep scrolling," Casey said.

Michael obliged, stopping when he came across the photos of Vaughan taking a briefcase from Sunday and holding it conspicuously to himself. A few pictures later, there was movement of plastic crates from a truck to a car. They were labeled_fragile _and most definitely being handled with care.

"Ah," Michael said with satisfaction. "Jackpot."

"Indeed," Billy said. "Unless those boxes have breakable collectibles, I'm going to venture they're housing military grade munitions."

"Those aren't military transport containers," Rick noted.

"So they're being repackaged, probably at their initial place of deployment," Michael agreed.

"No small feat," Casey said. "Especially considering how much there is."

He was right about that; Michael had suspected that Vaughan was trafficking enough weapons to turn the tide for Sunday's network, but this was more than that.

"Why would they need so many?" Rick asked.

"You know how much criminals love new toys," Billy said. "American men are fond of their electronics; militants enjoy explosives."

"And extra cash," Casey said.

"You think they're selling?" Rick asked as Michael continued to scroll through the photos.

"Likely," Michael concluded, feeling his stomach twinge just slightly. It was a development he hadn't counted on. Supplying Sunday was one level; selling to other parties was another thing entirely. This meant that the damage was far more widespread and the risks had just been upped.

So had the need to fix it. Taking Vaughan out of the game was essential before the munitions he was selling ended up doing more damage outside the militant's war.

Still, the entanglements made the chance of something going wrong even more of a concern. It was a proverbial wrench in the works, and it was up to Michael to make sure things kept running smoothly.

"So what do we do?" Rick asked.

Michael put the camera down, mouth pressed thinly, resolved. "We stick to the plan," he said. "The scale of the operation only chances how pressing the need is to take Vaughan down. It doesn't change our approach."

Casey took back the camera. "So does this mean we won't be going on the safari outing?"

"We need to get a tab on the different buyers and see how wide this thing goes," Michael said.

Billy made a face. "I suppose criminals are a type of predator all their own," he said. "Though they're not quite as impressive as lions."

"In a head to head match, they wouldn't even stand a chance," Casey said.

"We don't need a head to head, not with the network," Michael reminded them. "If we can collect the intel we can roll them up after we take out Vaughan."

"Which means we still need to establish contact," Rick said.

"Right," Michael said, looking back toward the youngest operative. "I'll push our asset, tell him to start talking us up and then we can be available in the hotel bar throughout the week, hoping that Vaughan bites."

"What if he doesn't?" Rick asked.

It was a valid question, perhaps, but still somewhat annoying. Michael pinned the younger man with a look. "He will," he replied flatly.

The protest was on Rick's face but he didn't question. Billy reached across, patting him on the arm. "There are many unpredictable elements of a mission," he said. "But the bond of curious criminals with something in common is hard to miss."

"Especially if there's the opportunity to expand profits," Casey said.

"And clearly Vaughan's more ambitious than we gave him credit for," Michael said. "Give it a day. He'll make contact before sundown tomorrow. Everyone needs to be alert, vigilant. No screw-ups. Not on this mission. Not with the stakes going up like they are."

Casey rolled his eyes.

Billy saluted.

Rick blinked.

Encouraging? Maybe not. But Michael had to believe it would be enough.

-o-

Their asset was a skinny man with a not-so-subtle drug habit. He was old school, which meant that his criminal ways mostly predated the modern push for organized terrorism after 9/11. His loyalties were easily bought and his contact were well entrenched.

This meant he was useful for the right price but never for any length of time. That was okay with Michael; he just needed one favor and Peter just needed a little bit of cash to score his next hit.

"I am a, how you say, informant?" Peter said, shuffling in the alley where Michael had arranged the meet. It was a bit more public than he might have liked, but they didn't have a lot of options so it would have to do.

Especially since he doubted Peter would have been amenable to anything more remote; his brand of paranoia was different than Michael's. Where Michael was afraid of giving himself away, Peter was simply weary of getting left in an alley to die, so a rarely used alley off a main street was the best happy medium possible.

Still, it did nothing to assuage Michael's nerves. Peter's twitchy behavior didn't do much either. "We use the term asset," Michael said plainly, pressing himself against the brick wall.

"I am not yours to use as you please," Peter said, pacing back and forth. He ran a hand over his face. "I provide information for a cost."

"That's still what I'm asking you to do," Michael said. "You're just providing false information to someone else."

Peter laughed, high pitched and borderline hysterical. "You Americans," he said. "So clever with your words. People who tell lies for the CIA are people who die for the CIA."

"You're not going to die," Michael said.

"Oh, so certain?" Peter asked. "You want me to tell lies to dangerous people. People who tell lies to dangerous people end up dead."

"Normally I'd agree with you," Michael said, keeping his voice low. "But we plan on getting these dangerous people off the streets and out of this city for good. By the time they know you lied to them they'll be long gone."

At least, that was the plan. Michael wasn't an overly sympathetic person but he also didn't have a heart of stone. Peter was a drug addict and a low level criminal. He probably had more skeletons than Michael cared to know about and the man would likely betray him if the price was right.

Yet, the fact was Michael was asking him to put his life on the line. For pay, yes, but the risk was still there. And Michael didn't want the weight of another life on his shoulders.

Plus, he didn't want to recruit another Nigerian asset if he could help it.

Peter looked at him with obvious doubt. "Americans: you all believe you're God," he said. "Like you have some right to control the destiny of the world. The little people who do not know how to achieve for themselves."

"I can pay you and you know it," Michael said.

"What is pay if I am dead?"

"What is life if you can't get your next hit?" Michael asked, cutting to the point.

Peter barked a laugh. "I cannot deny it," he said. "And I cannot refuse it."

Michael smirked. "I thought so," he said. "And I promise, I'll make this extra worth your while."

Peter waved a hand. "Yes, yes. Great sacrifice for great gain," he muttered. "I just hope I can tell lies as well as you can."

"If you have something to calm your nerves, I'm sure you can pull it off," Michael returned, only half joking.

With another laugh, Peter shook his head. "Just know my life is in yours hands," he said. "Your lies better be as good as your money."

Michael felt his confidence waver before he bolstered it, nodding resolutely. "I promise," he said, "it's better."

-o-

Trusting Peter was a weakness in the plan; the man hadn't let him down before, but Michael had also never expected quite so much. They'd already seen Vaughan around their hotel, working up other criminals Michael recognized from his files, but he needed Peter to spread the word about his cover if Vaughan was ever going to bite.

Vaughan had to bite. If Vaughan didn't bite, then Michael would have to force a meeting, and the entire thing would start out on entirely the wrong foot. His entire strategy hinged on the idea that Vaughan would think first contact was his idea, that Michael was doing him a favor. It was essential to garnering trust and getting him to step outside his comfort zone.

Peter had obviously told him something. Vaughan had started watching him the next day. Michael made a point to be in the public often, lounging with Rick as they ate and pretended to talk business. One day passed, then two. By the third day, Michael was worried he was going to have to call up Peter to see what was wrong when Vaughan sauntered up to the bar where Michael was nursing his beer.

Vaughan took the stool one down from Michael and ordered a drink of his own. Michael watched him without looking, glancing toward Billy and Casey who were talking to another member of their tour group. They glanced back but didn't miss a beat in the conversation.

Michael took a drink, biding his time. Finally, Vaughan spoke. "So I hear you're American," he ventured.

Michael looked over at him, cool and collected. "I hear it's not smart to talk to strangers in this place," he said.

Vaughan tilted his head. "That's good advice," he said. "Unless you're someone who knows how to look after himself."

Michael took a drink and didn't look at him. "What makes you think that I am?"

"I know the stance of a military man," Vaughan said. "Let me guess, Air Force?"

Michael worked to suppress his grin. "Marines," he said, looking toward Vaughan and thinking a word of thanks to Peter.

Vaughan's face lit up. "The same," he said. "I just got out last year."

"I've been out for two years," Michael said. Then he hesitated, extended his hand. "Thomas Vance."

"Wendell Vaughan," he replied, taking Michael's hand readily. "I have to admit, seeing another American face is a sight for sore eyes. Don't get me wrong; this place has its perks and the people are accommodating if you know how to work them, but a guy can get homesick."

Michael laughed. "Home is a state of mind, especially for a Marine," he said.

"This is true," Vaughan agreed. "But I can't tell you the last time I actually got to talk about football. Real football. Not the kind on the pitch."

Michael chuckled again. "Spoken like a true American," he said. "So what has you here?"

"Business," Vaughan said, and then hesitated.

Over at the table, Billy was telling a raucous story. Casey even smiled. Rick meandered in the doorway, but Michael shook his head slightly, sending the younger man walking.

Purposefully, Michael kept his expression neutral. "And what business are you in?"

Vaughan hesitated again, a flicker of doubt evident in his eyes. This was the critical moment, the most important step yet. Vaughan had to trust him, had to open up. It was part of Michael's plan.

Vaughan smiled. "You know, from what I've heard, we have very similar businesses," he said, a bit cautious but the words heavy with meaning.

"Oh really?" Michael asked, vaguely bemused.

Nodding, Vaughan looked serious. "Maybe you'd like to talk about it," he said. "Someplace more…private maybe."

It was exactly what Michael wanted to hear, but he was playing tough to get. He narrowed his eyes. "I'm not sure—"

"Trust me," Vaughan said. "Just a friendly discussion between two like-minded individuals." The offer was plain and sincere. "I'll even pay."

Michael fiddled with his drink before finishing it. He pulled out his wallet and laid a few bills on the table. "Who am I to refuse a free drink?" he asked.

Vaughan smiled. "Great," he said. "I think I know just the place."

Michael only half listened as Vaughan finished his drink. Michael adjusted his shirt, where his mic was hidden in one of his buttons. He did a cursory sweep of the bar as he turned, noting Billy laughing and Casey drinking but nothing else out of place. Vaughan led him out and he passed Rick with a nod before stepping out into the street.

Vaughan was nervous, but eager.

It was all according to plan. Vaughan had approached him, already initiated trust. This was a critical step to the mission and it was all happening even better than Michael could have expected. It was playing out just as he planned, just as it needed to if Michael was going to retain control of this mission on the level he needed to.

That was the beauty of watching a plan come together. Of seeing his hard work pay off, of seeing it all work out just the way he'd set up. Down to every last detail.

-o-

When Michael finally got back, it was late. Later than he normally preferred, but he could only count that as a good thing. It meant that Vaughan trusted him, liked him even.

If the hour wasn't enough to suggest that, the high bar tab was pretty convincing. Vaughan had taken him to a nearby eatery, where they had been ushered into a private back area. Just one look around told Michael that it was the criminal VIP section, which definitely meant that Michael was on the right track.

The drinks weren't bad and the chitchat was a bit cumbersome but informative nonetheless. Michael wasn't one for idle talk – that was Billy's forte – but he took Vaughan's war stories as individual pieces of intelligence. The entire night, in that way, was a reconnaissance success, even if Michael had to schmooze and tell a few dozen lies to make it work.

Plus, Vaughan liked him. Vaughan trusted him. They didn't quite get to business but they hadn't avoided it, either. It was the get-to-know-you stage of the relationship, and Michael had a feeling he passed with flying colors.

Which made it more than somewhat worthwhile to be out late, to be a little buzzed, and to still have to manage a nightly debrief with his team.

He jimmied the lock on the door – none of them had used the keycards for the safe room – and crept inside. The lights were on low, and even though he knew the room was secure and his team wouldn't let it be compromised, he felt himself stiffen slightly, fingers twitching for the gun, still securely holstered.

Stepping in farther, his nerves were nothing but classic paranoia.

"You're late," Casey said flatly.

He was sitting on the bed, arms crossed behind his head, eyes closed.

"And I might note," Billy added from the other bed, where he was sprawled, pillows askew and bunched up for no reason, "that tardiness was nowhere in the mission plan."

Michael smiled at that. "You're jealous," he said. "How cute."

"Just bored," Casey said.

"And feeling a wee bit left out," Billy added. "I mean, five rounds? You always peter out at three for us."

"That's because he didn't have to pay tonight," Casey reminded him.

Maybe it was the extra alcohol – though, probably not, Michael didn't get drunk, not on duty, not ever – so maybe it was the euphoria of a mission going according to plan, but the usual repartee didn't even elicit a typical glare from him.

Rick was at the table, sitting at his laptop, headphones still on, though with only one ear attuned. "Whatever it was," he said, the only one on topic, as per usual, "it was productive. Sounds like he trusted you."

Michael smirked, loosening his tie before pulling the knot apart and letting it hang loose. He didn't like to think he was prone to ego, but after the night he'd had of unparalleled success, it was hard not to be a little smug. "The man was completely desperate for a friend," he said.

"Well, I am always up for new friends," Billy said, propping himself up a bit. "Especially if they mean we are that much closer to taking down a gun network."

"We're definitely moving in the right direction," Michael said. "How's everything behind the scenes?"

"Boring," Casey relayed, not moving from his clearly comfortable perch.

"Oh, I don't know," Billy replied. "The Gundersons, from Germany, are really delightful people with wonderful stories about dentistry."

Casey rolled his eyes. "Yes, their endless tales about flossing are quite invigorating," he said. "But as for the criminal element, there's been nothing new on our radar."

"But we have taken the data we've accumulated and painted a pretty accurate picture of Vaughan's schedule," Rick said, nodding to his screen. "New shipments seem to be a weekly event – Thursdays, in fact."

Michael leaned over, glancing at the screen. Rick's analysis was good – no doubt – just as solid as Casey's intel and Billy's observations. He frowned. "This means his organization is already much more advanced than we'd anticipated."

"He's already playing with the big boys," Casey confirmed dully.

"Which means he's not new to the idea of expansion," Rick said, fidgeting slightly. "What if he's not interested in risking more expansion? What if he really just wants a friend?"

It was something somewhat unexpected – the intel had suggested that Vaughan was new at this, and new criminals were rarely so cavalier until they got acclimated to the way of life. He had suspected this transition to be even more difficult for Vaughan, who was a decorated soldier with apparently everything going for him. He wasn't a stupid person – to the contrary, Michael found him bright, aware and moderately cautious – so the idea that he'd spread himself so thin was hard to believe.

That was when Michael realized the piece he'd been missing. "None of this is his idea," he said the conclusion out loud before he'd even fully realized the thought.

Rick tilted his head. Casey looked thoughtful. Billy sat all the way up, nodding.

"The rapid expansion could be both supply and demand," Casey said.

"With our poor Vaughan just stuck as the unlucky middleman," Billy said.

Rick shook his head. "That screws the whole plan up."

It was partially true. Michael had counted on Vaughan being a more integral part of the decision making process, but the man Michael had met tonight, while clearly corruptible, did not seem to be the type to forge ahead so recklessly in the black market of arms dealing.

He was also desperate for a friend. Some people were naturally friendly and were inclined to make friends out of habit. Some people were lonely and latched onto the first friendly face in order to stave off desolation. Vaughan was the latter. Add his isolation to being coerced into criminal dealings outside his comfort zone, and he wasn't the mark Michael had hoped to leverage.

But he was still one that could be leveraged. Temptation for more money and power wasn't going to do it, though. No, Michael needed to play on his fear and neediness.

And just like that, Michael had a new plan.

"The old plan, maybe," Michael conceded. He picked up the camera off the table, turning it on and scrolling. "Can we get some shots printed out?"

"I guess so," Rick said, shrugging. "There's a drug store down the street. Why?"

"I want to make a little photo mosaic for my new friend," Michael said.

Rick didn't quite get it – not yet – but Casey and Billy were watching him with knowing suspicion. "You could spook him," Casey said.

"That's the idea," Michael said.

"As if the poor man isn't already desperate for a friendly face," Billy said, shaking his head.

"That's the idea," Michael said. Rick was still watching him blankly, so he extrapolated. "So we reinforce his vulnerability and then offer him the security he's been afraid to admit he needs."

"You're going to force him on a ledge so you can be the hand that pulls him back up," Rick realized. He considered it. "Show him the pictures and then hope he sees you as his best way out."

"It's still a risk, though," Casey pointed out. "If he's as much in a corner as we seem to think he is, then he may just go to the top if you tip him off first."

Billy made a face. "But the grass is always greener," he said. "Our friend Vaughan wants a friend in Michael. They haven't been explicit in their criminal bond, but it's there, just as readily as everything else. A man like that – all men, really – wants someone to understand. You don't buy five rounds unless you want to trust someone."

"It's a risk, but it's the right one to take," Michael concluded for all of them. "Martinez, get the pictures printed. I want a nice spread to show Vaughan that we know what he's up to before we assure him that we're here to be friends, not enemies." He turned to Billy and Casey. "Keep up the surveillance. I want to know how heavily Vaughan's being leaned on and from which side. Is Jenkins running this or Sunday?"

Casey sighed, getting to his feet. "As long as I don't have to listen to the Gundersons, I'm on it."

Billy stood with a melodramatic flair. "If you would just spend more time trying to fit in with the group it wouldn't be so bad," he complained. "You are supposed to be undercover as a tourist."

"And I am," Casey said. "I'm the antisocial person in the group who knows he's too good to bother with the rest of them. It's a tried and true stereotype; things would feel off if I didn't play the role."

Michael held back a smile but Rick stared.

Casey shrugged. "It's true," he said. "Check my pre-mission report. It's all in there."

"Right next to how to be a kill joy undercover _and _on a mission," Billy griped.

"At least I don't tell the same story to every person I meet," Casey shot back.

Billy looked hurt. "That story is a classic," he said defensively. He turned to Michael and Rick, gesturing. "An enlivening tale about my first trip to the magical streets of Paris. It's a coming of age story with a hint of romance and a nice dollop of adventure."

"You got mugged and then you had sex," he said.

"There's more to it than that!" Billy cried indignantly.

"Oh, and you saw the Eiffel Tower," Casey said. "Does that cover it?"

"Your telling is completely devoid of nuance," Billy complained. He looked back to Rick and Michael, winking. "It's nothing short of an awe-inspiring story, I assure you."

Michael allowed himself a smile. "I'm sure," he said. "Just be sure to take enough of a break from storytelling so you can keep up the reconnaissance. We can't afford to miss anything. Now more than ever."

Billy nodded resolutely. "I am the picture of duty," he promised.

Casey snorted, brushing past him. "If duty looks like that, then I may be in line for a career change," he muttered before he left the room.

Billy scowled and followed.

Alone with Rick, Michael shrugged. "No one ever said our plans were perfect," he said. "But they get the job done."

Rick looked uncertain. "I know plans always change," he said, slowly. "But how do you know for sure it's all going to work out?"

Rick was a good operative, so much so that sometimes Michael forgot exactly how new he was at this. Sure, Rick was always the new guy doing new guy things and making new guy mistakes. But he was skilled and competent. He had a knack for the spy game, even if Michael would never admit to it.

But some of these things took years to learn; some of these skill took decades to master. Michael had always been paranoid, but it had only been after years on the job that he learned how to be a bastard and save lives.

"You just remember the big picture," he said. "The details can change. We can rearrange all of the small things. But as long as we keep the big picture in order, keep our eyes on the end destination – then we can make it work."

"And if we can't?" Rick asked.

Michael had to smile. "We do," he said. "Because there's never any other option."

-o-

Alone in his hotel room, Michael went over his notes again. He unlocked the files from the safe and made notations, filling in the changes and marking new areas of concern. He read and reread and filed them carefully back in the safe before brushing his teeth and going to bed.

He unmade the covers, and slid underneath. They were too starchy, a little uncomfortable, but Michael had slept in far worse places. Better places, too, but that wasn't the point of the job.

The point of the job was to get the mission done. And that was his priority. Tomorrow would be a critical day. Once Martinez got the pictures, he would set up a meet with Vaughan. Throw the pictures at the man, let the fear build and then assure him that they weren't enemies. That they could be friends.

He could only hope that Vaughan would take it from there. So far, Vaughan had been cooperative and predictable. It only made sense to Michael that he would be at first mortified that his operation had been blown wide open by potential competition and then totally relieved to have someone to confide in.

Confidence could build friendship. Friendship could become partnership. Partnership would give him access to Sunday, Jenkins, and the entire operation.

Then they could make their move. They could take out the key players, glean the intel and slowly spawn subsequent operations to take the rest out.

Then he could get his team home. Casey could go back to his training. Billy could go back to his flirting. Rick could go back to his translating. Michael could go back and sit in Fay's office, smiling at her over another job well done. This was his team. He didn't like to play rank or to issue orders, but someone had to be responsible. Casey could beat their way out of any situation. Billy could charm their way into any restricted area. Rick could do more than translate – hell, Michael wasn't even sure of half the things that kid could do.

They were good at their individual roles, and that was why it worked. It was a complementary system. They needed each other. Casey needed Billy; Billy needed Rick; Rick needed Casey. They all needed him because Michael was the big picture guy. Michael was the one ultimately in control.

Michael knew control was a dangerous, tenuous thing. That was why he worked so hard to keep a hold on it. That was why he didn't fail.

Couldn't fail.

He let that be his mantra until the minutes drifted away and Michael fell asleep.

-o-

Michael threw the pictures on the table. They weren't his team's best work – Billy's photography was a bit too cavalier and the quality of the printing place down the street left something to be desired – but the images were still clear.

Vaughan froze.

His eyes were wide, unblinking. His entire body went stiff and he stared. Then his eyes flicked up and met Michael's, mouth open. He took a breath, clearly at a loss. The fear was evident.

It was only two days after their initial meeting. They had crossed paths again yesterday and set up a social get together for today, same place as before. Only this time, Michael showed up on his own and bought the man a beer before pulling out the pictures.

Vaughan swallowed, his lips moving. There was a small sound in his throat, choked and suppressed.

Michael let the fear linger, just for a moment longer. Then, he smiled. "I had figured you were in the business, but I had no idea just how much of the business you were in," he said.

Vaughan trembled, but found his voice. "Who are you?"

Michael took a drink, shrugging. "Same guy I was yesterday," he said.

"Then, what—" Vaughan tried to say, his voice cracking. He swallowed with effort and gathered himself. "What is this?"

"This is me doing my homework," Michael explained easily. "I like a lot of people; I don't trust many, though."

"I'm connected," Vaughan said, trying to sound confident. "My operations – it's connected—"

"Whoa," Michael said as disarmingly as he could. "You're nervous. There's no reason to be nervous."

"You followed me," Vaughan said, his voice dropping as he leaned forward. "You've got incriminating photos of me on the table."

Michael didn't flinch. "To some people, they're incriminating," he said. "To me, it's good news."

Vaughan stared, finally blinking. "What?"

Michael nodded toward them. "You're into guns," he said. "Best damn news I've heard all week."

Vaughan shook his head. "I don't understand."

"When you asked around, did they tell you what business I was in?"

"Not exactly," Vaughan admitted.

"Drugs," Michael said. "The good stuff, too. I'm looking to open up a new branch out this way and am in town scouting the competition to see what needs to be done."

Vaughan kept staring.

Michael pointed at the photos. "This isn't competition," he said. "This means we can be friends, just like we want to be. Hell, we're practically complementary businesses. Same clients and all."

Vaughan's posture relaxed slightly. He let himself laugh. "The entire thing has me on edge," he admitted. "In my mind, it was only going to be running a few guns on the side." He looked at the photos. "This…is a lot more than I intended."

"No risk, no reward, right?" Michael cajoled.

Vaughan took a long, hard drink. "That's what my partners say."

"They're right," Michael said. "I mean, assuming you trust who you're working with. A solid partnership is the critical way to ensure that nothing goes wrong."

To that, Vaughan looked vaguely uncertain.

Michael was careful, but he did push. "I mean, you do trust them, right?"

"Yeah," Vaughan said quickly. Too quickly. "Of course I do."

"Good," Michael said, smiling. "Now let's have another drink and we can share business stories this time. My treat."

-o-

Sometimes, changes worked in their favor.

Sometimes, they didn't.

When his phone rang on the third round with Vaughan, he suspected there might be a problem. It wasn't a number he had given out to many people. In fact, it wasn't a number he'd given out at all.

Then he recognized the incoming number.

Smiling politely at Vaughan, he said, "I need to take this."

Vaughan nodded and Michael stepped away, pulling into the hallway, and presses a hand over his other ear to hear. "Hello?"

"Michael," Casey's voice came. "I think we have a problem."

Glancing back toward Vaughan, still nursing his drinks, Michael pursed his lips. "Of course we do."

-o-

A plan wasn't an ODS plan unless something went wrong.

Michael knew this. He always tried to account for it, but the harder he tried, the more fate seemed to rear its ugly and ever-unpredictable head.

Still, this wasn't high on Michael's list of acceptable complications.

"Where is he?" Michael demanded, moving through the streets, eyes wide as he tracked the traffic, looking for anything amiss.

"Doing his morning rounds," Casey said.

"And he's sure he's being followed?" Michael demanded, ducking through an alley and feeling far too conspicuous.

"That was my first question," Casey replied, "but when he made contact with us, Billy had been observing from a distance and confirmed it."

Michael took a sharp turn and backtracked down a street, checking the path behind him out of habit. "Do we know who?"

"No positive ID as of yet," Casey reported. "But Billy says the guy looks local."

"What's Rick doing?" Michael prompted.

"Running a few extra errands," Casey said. "So if there's anything you want at the drug store…"

Michael nodded, gathering himself and processing the information. A tail meant that someone was on to them. Under normal situations, he'd probably attribute that to the mark. Michael's affiliation with Rick was purposefully known though never explicit. But that didn't fit the profile he'd worked up with Vaughan, which meant it was someone else.

Either Sunday or Jenkins – neither of whom would be too keen on Vaughan getting cozy with a newcomer in town.

"What if we ride it out?" Michael asked, putting the first solution out there. "If this is a tail from one of Vaughan's partners, we've got nothing to hide through Rick."

"Maybe," Casey said. "But he's packing. Billy says it looks like a would-be hit."

Michael swore, even as he kept with the flow of foot traffic.

"Do you want us to take him out?" Casey asked, the words carefully chosen but the intent clear.

"No," Michael said. He sighed. "We don't want the body count. It'll make things more complicated than they are already."

"So what's your plan then?" Casey prompted.

Michael stopped, pausing for a moment to think. They couldn't kill the guy, but they couldn't let him get close enough to kill Rick either. This upped the ante – no doubt – so Michael needed to act. They needed to get this guy under wraps, one way or another.

One way.

Or another.

Michael inclined his head. Then he nodded and started walking. "I think I have an idea."

-o-

Michael, in general, was a slow and methodical planner. He liked to view and review, plot and re-plot. He liked to go over the details, solidify the finer points and come up with a perfectly crafted plan to call his own.

Unfortunately, when it came to the ODS, such things were not always possible. As much as Michael plotted and planned, he usually wound up in the field, scraping something together and flying by the proverbial seat of his pants and just hoping for the best.

Like today.

Rick was being followed by a likely would-be assassin. This meant their cover could be compromised and their inlet with the mark could be compromised and Rick could be killed.

All in all, things weren't quite going to hell just yet, but they were hanging out in some kind of purgatory and Michael really hoped that this last minute plan of his worked.

He was breathless by the time he got there, not just from running five blocks but from climbing six stories. In ten minutes.

On the roof, the sun was scorching. Michael checked and found he was the first one there. Confident that he was alone, he pulled to the side, pressing himself against the wall and pulling his gun. When the door swung open a few minutes later he aimed but let it slide when he recognized Casey.

Casey's forehead glistened but he was barely out of breath as he cocked his head. "You couldn't pick a building with more shade?" he asked, squinting toward Michael.

Michael shrugged. "I didn't have a lot of time."

"Still," Casey said. "You're slipping."

The barb was cut short when a clatter came from inside the stairwell. Casey's face went blank, eyes fiery, and he fanned out, taking the opposite side of the door.

Michael controlled his breathing, narrowing his eyesight to see through the sun. When the door opened again, Rick came through. He hesitated, glancing back first at the door before seeing Michael.

Michael nodded.

Rick swallowed, nodding back. Then he moved, walking straight across the roof while keeping himself in plain sight of the doorway.

Silence fell. This time, there was no clatter in the stairwell, but Michael was still ready when the door opened. The man who followed was unfamiliar, clearly a local. The sun radiated off his clean-shaven head, and he had a gun.

Rick stopped, putting his hands up.

The man approached him, gun still raised.

Michael's finger itched on the trigger.

"You're making a mistake," Rick told him.

The man shook his head. "It is not my job to make mistakes," he said, words heavily accented.

"You should put the gun down," Rick said.

"Says the man without a gun," the man continued.

Michael stepped away from the wall, keeping his aim steady. He released the safety, letting the telltale click resound on the rooftop.

The man stiffened. Slowly – very slowly – he turned his head. He saw Michael but he didn't flinch, gun still steady. "It is a game of chance, then," he said. "And I wager that I can still kill him before you can stop me."

Another safety released and Casey stepped into clear view. "The odds are getting worse for you," Casey said.

The man's jaw tightened. He looked at Michael, back at Rick.

Just then, the door opened again and Billy was there, just as planned, gun up and ready.

In Michael's mind the sheer number of armed men enough to subdue the other man. He would be brave but not suicidal. He'd see the odds and give in. Most people bargained for their lives when they understood that success was not possible.

Most people, but not all people, and Michael could account for a lot of things, but it was impossible to perfectly deduce the reactions of enemy agents under pressure in the field.

"You're out of options," Michael said.

The man hesitated. His aim wavered. The plan was working.

Then the man dropped the gun.

And ran to the edge and jumped.

-o-

The good news was that the man had jumped in a deserted alley, so there wasn't much chance of foot traffic. That was one of the reasons Michael had chosen this building – its location was out of the way enough to complete this portion of the operation without too much outside interference.

Of course, in Michael's head, they were going to capture the man and either turn him or have him arrested in some fashion. Collecting his body was certainly not Michael's first choice, but it was the only choice they had now.

"We could just call in a tip," Casey said, getting to his feet. It was fairly obvious that the man was beyond help, but Michael preferred his team to be thorough in this and Casey was the closest thing to a field medic they had, Michael's years in pre-med aside. "With the violence in this area, I'm pretty sure no one will think twice."

"Except his employer," Michael reminded him.

"Indeed," Billy said. "Poor sod probably should have looked into what funeral benefits organized crime offers before taking the plunge."

Casey looked at his hands and made a face, wiping a bit of grime on his pants. "Or he could have just avoided such a dangerous line of work to begin with," he said. "I hear farming is a little less prone to death by falling."

Rick looked paler than the rest of them. His jaw was tight as he tried not to look at the man smashed against the pavement. "I just don't get how we were made," he said. "We've been careful."

"And so have they," Michael said. "We ran recon on them, they were naturally going to do the same."

"But I thought Vaughan trusted you," Rick countered.

"He does," Michael said. "But he's still not stupid. Besides, I'm betting this guy isn't working for Vaughan."

"You think Jenkins is worried that Vaughan's slipping?" Casey prompted.

"Or our local criminal Sunday is trying to make sure his supply lines aren't threatened," Billy added.

"That's my guess," Michael said.

Rick nodded. "He has the make of it," he said. "The right age and build."

"Do we have an ID?" Michael asked.

Casey leaned over, making a face as he reached into the man's pocket, producing a wallet. Flipping through it, he settled on an ID. "Looks fake," he said, pulling it out and giving it to Michael.

Michael took it, giving it a look. He wasn't finely attuned to these things, but the workmanship was poor enough to be a giveaway. "Jenkins wouldn't be this sloppy," he said. "Neither would Vaughan."

"So Sunday knows," Rick concluded.

"Or, at the very least, Sunday has his doubts," Billy said.

"We can still call the tip in," Casey said.

Michael considered that. It might have blowback but nothing they couldn't handle. It would require a bit more finesse where Vaughan was concerned, especially if Sunday confronted him. That sort of confrontation could tip Vaughan either way and Michael needed to ensure that Vaughan moved ever closer to him if this was going to work.

Which meant letting the dead body be found was not in their best interest. At least, not if the police did the finding.

And not if Sunday had a chance to link the man to them.

No, the key was to link the man to Sunday first.

"No," Michael said, the plan solidifying.

Billy quirked an eyebrow. "So we're not planning to detach ourselves from a scene of questionable death," he mused. "I always love such potential legal conundrums."

Michael didn't let his worries bother him. "No, we need Vaughan to make this decision."

"But this guy was after us," Rick said.

"But Vaughan doesn't know that," Michael said, eyes glinting as the details fall into place. "When I left, we were together."

"So Vaughan could think the guy was tailing him," Casey figured.

"And decided to hedge his bets to see what Vaughan's cohorts were up to," Billy concluded. "Use all the self doubt against them. It's a bit sinister but rather effective."

"And then we don't have to worry about the body," Michael said. "And Vaughan will start to trust us over his partners."

"And we have our ever growing sway over Vaughan," Billy concluded.

It was a solid renovation of the plan and Michael couldn't help but nod, feeling vaguely smug.

"Don't," Casey warned.

Michael frowned, finding his team watching him. "What?"

"You're getting that look," Casey said. "That look of satisfaction when you think things are going our way."

"Things are going our way," Michael countered.

"We're standing over a dead man," Casey said.

"Who tried to kill me," Rick reminded them.

"But if this is as bad as it gets—"

Billy flinched.

Casey shook his head. "Don't."

Michael blinked. "Don't what?"

"Tempt fate," Casey said.

"For once, I'm going to have to agree with Casey," Billy said. "It seems silly to pit ourselves against the always obstinate unknown. Especially after we just defied death once today."

Michael rolled his eyes. "After all these years, I would think you'd trust me."

Casey snorted. "After all these years, I'd think you'd remember that things can and will always get worse."

"It's not that bad," Michael tried to say.

Billy looked at him earnestly. "I think of you as a brother and I would follow you to the very depth of hell and back, but it really is often just that bad."

Rick shrugged, a little apologetic. "I've only been here six months, but I think I'd have to agree."

Michael shook his head. "We'll be fine," he said, flat and determined. "The plan is still good. This will work."

They had their doubts but Michael had his certainty. He had his control.

And for now, that was all he needed.

-o-

Time was of the essence.

True, a good operative understood patience. But a better one knew when it was time to act.

Michael was one of the best damn operatives there was. That wasn't conceit; that was survival.

So the fact was, there wasn't time to arrange things nicely. Deserted alley or not, there was only so much time before someone discovered the body and with the scorching sun, decomposition was imminent.

Fortunately, Michael had a few things in his favor. First, his team was good. Damn good. Casey and Billy were due back at the hotel, one to maintain cover, the other to maintain a vigilant eye on any activity. This was more important than ever because with the first tail, Michael knew it wouldn't be long before they had a second.

For his part, Rick was on his way back to his usual errands, to look as if nothing had changed. If Sunday was tracking them, Michael didn't want to give any indication of weakness. Keeping up appearances was critical.

The best surprise, however, was Vaughan. When Michael called to insist on a meeting, the man bent over backwards and showed up in a half hour flat.

Michael met him at the entryway to the alley. Vaughan shrugged. "What's this about? You said there was a problem?" he asked.

Michael inclined his head. "You tell me."

"I don't understand," Vaughan said, but he was already following Michael back. "I don't—"

Vaughan's voice cut off, a bit strangled and he pulled back as he swore. "What the hell – I'm not into this stuff—"

"Not into, what?" Michael asked, unwavering as he looked at Vaughan dispassionately.

"This," Vaughan hissed, gesturing at the body. "Your business is your business. I want to be your friend, but I don't want _this._"

"I totally agree," Michael said. "Which is why I brought you here to explain."

"Explain?" Vaughan said, incredulous. "If you killed a guy—"

"It was self defense," Michael said, which was actually somewhat true.

"But he was after you—"

"No," Michael said steadily. "He was after you."

Vaughan made a face. "Yeah, right—"

Michael didn't waver.

Vaughan flickered, swallowing and he shook his head. "No—"

"Yes," Michael said. "When I got called away, I left the bar and picked up this guy immediately. He rode my ass the whole way here. When we got to the roof of that building, he tried to kill me but I wasn't exactly keen on letting that happen."

"You don't know he was following me," Vaughan said.

"He was at that bar," Michael said.

"Where we both were," Vaughan insisted.

"Look at him," Michael said, nodding toward the man and hedging his bets. "Look familiar?"

Vaughan looked uncertain but eyed the dead man cautiously. Then he paled further.

"I thought so," Michael concluded. "So either you asked them to follow me or they were following you. And here I thought you were a friend."

"I am," Vaughan said, looking back up at Michael with determination. "I mean, I had no idea—"

Vaughan was a bad liar; he'd be a bad criminal. Good connections, ample opportunity – this man wasn't long for this job by sheer lack of fortitude. In some ways, it counted in the man's favor. It might get him a commuted sentence if he cooperated when this went down.

Until then, Michael needed that weakness. Needed it to make his plan work.

Bucking himself up, he eyed Vaughan with something resembling tough love. "I was hoping that was the case," he said. "Because I had a good feeling about the two of us. I wanted to like you."

"And you can," Vaughan said, more passionately now.

"But if you've got a tail, then I'm not sure I can trust you," Michael said. "I keep my business clean. This—" he motioned to the body, "—makes things messy. I can't afford messes. You need to get your house in order or you'll lose more than a friend."

It was an ominous warning, and Vaughan's wide eyes told Michael that it was being carefully considered.

Clapping the man on the shoulder, Michael paused. "Just watch your back," he said. "Because I can't watch both of ours."

With that, Michael left. The perfect flourish to a perfect execution.

If it wasn't planned, it was still perfect and that was what mattered.

-o-

The thing with being undercover was that it was more than a full time job. It was a life. There couldn't be any down time. Any lapse risked ruining everything.

Which was why Michael was at the hotel bar that night, according to his cover. He was a criminal scoping out new ground. His job was to sit and mingle and drink and look ominous if vaguely sociable.

He made small talk with other criminals, noting their names, faces, and businesses when possible as part of a larger intelligence file on the area. They weren't relevant to this mission, but they might be relevant later. Michael was nothing if not pragmatic and efficient.

So when Billy sauntered over and sat down next to him, ordering a glass of scotch, Michael was surprised.

He didn't show it, of course. He was a seasoned criminal. He cast the overly friendly tourist a look of mild disdain and kept drinking his whiskey.

"The nights are so pleasant here," Billy said, taking a drink. He turned and smiled at Michael. "That surprised me."

"I don't visit this country for the weather," Michael said coolly.

Billy's grin widened. "Yes, I suppose that one doesn't visit an arid African nation for the sweat," he said. "But it does have its charms, doesn't it?"

Billy was hinting at something. His conversational habits often seemed inane but they always had purpose. Undercover, more so than usual. Michael's eyes narrowed and he stayed where he was. "I suppose," he agreed.

Billy nodded. "My decision to come here was quite sudden," he said.

Michael picked up the hint. Something had changed. Something had changed suddenly.

Billy shrugged, taking another drink before continuing. "But I find the best trips are often the ones that you come upon unexpectedly," he said, looking at Michael. Their eyes locked and Billy inclined his head. "Though truth be told, I'm here to escape my boss. Hard task master, that one."

Michael could be insulted, but Billy wasn't talking about him. He was talking about Jenkins.

Jenkins was coming, much sooner than expected. This was unexpected but maybe for the best. Vaughan could have turned to Jenkins, or Jenkins could have picked up on the same uncertainty that Sunday had discovered.

This could mean that Vaughan was increasingly the odd man out; or it could mean that Vaughan trusted Jenkins more than Michael suspected. It could be bad news or good news; Michael needed more information.

"Anyway," Billy said, pausing to down the rest of his drink. He slammed it on the bar. "See you later, mate?"

"Maybe sooner than you think," Michael replied.

Billy nodded and made his way out of the bar.

Five minutes later, Michael asked for his bill and followed.

-o-

When Michael got to the safe room he was the last one there.

"Jenkins is coming?" Michael prompted.

Rick frowned. "How did you know that?"

"A sudden trip. Talk about the boss," Michael said, shrugging.

"Plus, after six years together, we have an inherent bond," Billy explained. "We hardly need words."

"And you owe me twenty bucks," Casey said.

Michael gave him a look.

Casey shrugged. "What? The kid was dumb enough to take the bet."

Michael shook his head. "Do we know why?"

"No," Rick said. "But we got the call from Fay; they picked up some chatter and Jenkins put in for a furlough and booked a ticket here."

"Subtle, he is not," Billy said.

"He probably has no idea that he's been compromised," Casey said. "He's been careful."

"Not careful enough, though," Billy returned.

"That still doesn't tell us why," Michael interjected, his brow furrowing thoughtfully.

"Vaughan could have called him," Rick said.

"If Sunday's got a tail on Vaughan, then he could have called Jenkins, too," Casey said.

"Which means Jenkins could be coming as a favor to Vaughan or as a favor to Sunday," Michael said.

"Two very different scenarios with far reaching and disparate implications," Billy said.

Michael nodded, chewing his lip. "It's be nice if we had some way to determine which was which," he said.

"Well, you are awfully buddy-buddy with Vaughan," Casey suggested.

"You could just feel it out," Rick added.

Just then, Michael's phone rang. He pulled it out, eyebrows going up. Putting to his ear, he said, "Vaughan. Didn't expect to hear from you so soon."

"I need to talk to you," Vaughan said. "Now."

His voice was emphatic and a touch desperate. "Sure thing," he said. "See you in fifteen."

Hanging up, he looked at his teammates. "I couldn't plan this stuff better if I tried."

"You did try," Rick said.

Michael had to grin, shrugging one shoulder before walking out.

-o-

Vaughan got them a private room. He had a bottle of whiskey and he was drinking nervously when Michael walked in.

"Miss me already?" Michael asked, keeping his tone light.

Vaughan didn't crack a smile. "I have a problem."

Michael shrugged, settling in the seat across from him. "I have an ex-wife who won't talk to me and I can't stop thinking about," he said. "We all have problems."

Vaughan met his eyes. "My partner is coming," he said flatly.

"The guy who tried to kill you?" Michael asked, playing purposefully dumb.

Vaughan shook his head. "My other one," he clarified. "My supplier."

"Ah," Michael said. "And that's a problem why?"

"Because I didn't call him," Vaughan said. "And there's no reason to come."

"Unless someone gave him a reason," Michael surmised.

"I think they're trying to squeeze me out," Vaughan said.

"Cutting out the middle man," Michael said. "It's been known to happen."

"Why else would they send someone after me?" Vaughan pressed. "Why else would the supplier be coming here? So soon? And risk so much?"

"It could be coincidence—"

"It's not," Vaughan said sharply. His eyes were bright, disposition jittery. He clenched his jaw and took an unsteady breath. "And I don't want to be cut out."

"Understandably," Michael said. "I'm still not getting why I'm here, though."

Vaughan sat forward anxiously. "I need more leverage," he said. "I need to bring something new to the partnership."

Michael kept himself cautious.

"You already said it, our businesses are complementary," he said. "Drugs and guns. It makes perfect sense. You can use my network to get oriented here and I can use your product to make more money for both of us. Win-win."

"Unless your partners disagree," Michael said.

"This much potential, they'd be crazy to," Vaughan said with enthusiasm now. Then he hesitated. "And if not, there's power in numbers."

Michael smirked. "You want me around to do your dirty work," he said.

Vaughan shook his head "I want a partner I can trust," he said.

He was earnest; he meant every word.

It was a surreal thing, to gain that much trust. It was one thing to work for it with his teammates, to spend years building and solidifying trust. It was another to forge a bond in the field, to make it seem authentic and have it be entirely a lie.

He was lying to Vaughan. All of it was a lie. A trick. Vaughan wanted someone he could trust and Michael was leading him slowly to destruction.

Not that he didn't necessarily deserve it; the man was a criminal.

Still, it gave him pause. Vaughan could be a bad person, but so was Michael. The fact that Vaughan was worse didn't really make Michael much better. It was a hard thing, putting himself out there. Lying and deceiving and carefully plotting the downfall of others, even in the name of the greater good. It wasn't just his plans that kept him alive in the field; it was his ability to be a bastard, no matter what.

Michael smiled. "I think maybe we can work something out."

Because he was okay with being a bastard, especially when plans this good just made themselves.

-o-

It was early morning when Michael finally left. There had been plotting and planning to do, and Vaughan had needed the moral support more than anything. They finished one bottle of whiskey before Michael extricated himself with the promise of more details when the sun was up.

Despite the alcohol, Michael was almost painfully sober. He had long since mastered the art of holding his liquor and he was even better at drinking in a way that made someone think he was holding his own while letting them do all the heavy lifting. Needless to say, Michael would just need a few hours of rest but Vaughan wouldn't be up and ready in the morning, even if he wanted to be.

Walking back to the hotel he kept his pace brisk, his eyes alert. The streets were quiet, given the hour, and every person seemed to pique his attention more than normal. There were many suspicious characters and he was fairly certain he observed at least three crimes, but nothing that affected him.

At the hotel, the bar was being closed for the night. Rick was loitering outside, falling in step with Michael as they headed up.

"That went well," Rick said as they waited for the elevator.

Michael nodded. "Better than expected even," he said. He hesitated, looking around the empty lobby. "The others?"

"In the safe room, compiling what we learned tonight from your meeting and getting fresh intel regarding Jenkins' travel plans," Rick reported. "I wanted to see where you wanted me in the morning."

Michael nodded. The elevator doors opened and they went in. When they closed, Michael looked at Rick. "It's time for you to meet Vaughan," he said. "We're talking partnership and I asked to see his operation and he asked to see mine."

"I have the cover information in the room," Rick said.

"And the product?" Michael asked.

"Enough to pass," he said.

Michael nodded. "That'll do," he said. "Vaughan's trusting us as a last resort. He'll believe it because he wants to."

Rick nodded. Then hesitated. "That's the plan anyway," he said, shrugging one shoulder as the elevator ascended.

Michael looked at the younger man, assessing him. "That's the plan," he agreed.

Martinez hesitated again.

Michael sighed. "Something you want to share, Martinez?" he prompted.

"It's just," he tried to say. He stopped, took a breath and tried again. "Vaughan's not a bad guy. I mean, I thought he'd be a bad guy."

Michael had to smirk. "He's a criminal," he said. "He's armed men who have killed people with stolen property. Stolen property from the American military, no less."

"I know," Rick said. "He's made mistakes."

"No, he's made his choice," Michael said. The elevator dinged and the doors opened. "And it was a bad one."

Michael didn't wait for an answer before stepping into the hall. Rick followed, just a step behind, face still thoughtful. "I know," he said. "It's just…harder than I thought it would be – deciding who's good and who's bad in this job."

It was almost hard to remember being that young, that uncertain. The years had honed Michael's skills. Rick was still inclined to see the best in people; Michael had spent his career assuming the worst.

That was the way it had to be; that didn't mean that he always liked it.

With a rueful smile, he shook his head. "There's no room for sentimentality in this job," he said. "When you make plans, you make them based on the facts, not what seems right or wrong in the moment."

Michael pulled to a stop, reaching in his pocket to pull out his card key. Rick stopped next to him nodding. "I try to tell myself that," he said. "Because I know Vaughan's file."

Michael slid his key in the lock. "That's what matters then," he said. "The best laid plans have no room for second guesses."

The key stuck funny and Michael jiggled. The light stayed red for a long moment and Michael frowned. Something was off. Something was different. He'd missed something. He's overlooked something.

Something-

Rick swore. "Michael—"

Michael inclined his head, looked at the key. Looked at the light. Heard the slightest click, felt the shift in the air—

He was aware of the explosion the second before it happened, a second before Rick pulled him hard to the floor and the entire door flew back and flames burst into the hallway.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Sorry about the cliffhanger! This chapter is sort of plotty but again, somewhat necessarily. I apologize if I bore you! And I promise there is more action to come.

PART THREE

-o-

Michael never passed out.

His consciousness zoned, narrowing to a point and he lost all control of his limbs. He could see the charred hallway, feel the well worn carpet against his cheek.

Rick was there, looking down at him. His lips were moving but the sound was too diffused to make sense of.

Michael blinked.

When he opened his eyes, he was half slung on Rick's shoulders. His legs fumbled beneath him as they stumbled down the hall.

Michael blinked.

They were in a stairwell. Michael had his back pressed against a wall. Rick was holding him up with one hand, yelling into his phone. His face was pinched, eyes lined with worry.

Michael blinked.

Billy and Casey were there. Casey's arms were up, at the ready. Billy was kneeling in front of him, looking intently in his eyes.

Billy's mouth moved.

Michael cocked his head, confused.

Then the words caught up with him. _I'm sorry. _Billy was apologizing.

Before Michael could ask why, Billy pulled him up and this time when Michael blinked his eyes didn't open again.

-o-

Until there was air.

It was arid and thick, hot in his lungs but enlivening all the same.

Eyes open, Michael squinted into the early dawn. Everything hurt – his head, his back, his chest – but he forced it aside.

This time, he was leaned against a wall, rough cement under him. There was a faint hint of smoke in the air, almost lost in the rank odor of trash.

He took another breath, felt it pulling in his chest. Ribs, he realized. Taking another breath, he winced. Bruised, not broken.

"Still bad enough for you to sit still, though," Casey mused.

Michael turned his head just slightly.

Casey was there, fingering his scalp. When he sat back, his hands were bloody.

Michael shifted, made a face. "Someone put an explosive in my room," he realized.

Rick snorted.

Billy squatted down and smiled. "That's the nice way of saying that someone tried to kill you," he said.

"Probably would have gotten the job done if not for Martinez's quick thinking," Casey said.

Michael glanced up. The younger operative looked pale, face smudged with soot but no worse for wear.

Rick's expression was tight. "I heard the click," he said. He shrugged. "No second guessing, right?"

Michael had to grin. "Right," he said. He pushed up, trying to get unsteadily to his feet.

"You do remember the part where you were just nearly blown to pieces," Casey said, hands hovering close to him but not pushing him back down.

Michael took a breath, felt himself steady. "Nearly being the operative word," he said.

"I never pegged you to be one for semantics," Billy mused.

"Just a pragmatist," Michael countered, swallowing again as a small swell of nausea threatened his equilibrium.

"Pragmatically speaking, we may want to rethink our strategy just a little," Casey suggested, his wry tone hiding what Michael knew was worry.

They were all worried. Billy was standing close to him, not quite touching but not even an arm's length away. Casey was barely keeping the intensity in his eyes from looking distressed and Rick had pulled away, shoulders tense and face uncertain.

With reason, he supposed. The bomb, after all, hadn't been part of the plan. In fact, it hadn't even been a blip on Michael's radar. He knew that he was being watched; he knew that his cover was tenuous and deep. After the man on Rick the stakes had been high but someone had actually broken into his room, set a device and tried to kill him.

His body twinged and he had to control another wince. Had almost killed him.

Still. He was in control. He was alive and in control. There were no other options.

His team was watching him, assessing him, worrying about him, waiting for him. They wouldn't say it, but they depended on his leadership.

Wetting his lips, he forced a smile. "How bad was the damage?" he asked, skirting the topic entirely for now. He needed information. Without information, he couldn't plan. Planning was critical.

Casey's expression shifted just slightly; he understood. "Not too bad," he said. "They evacuated the hotel but mostly as a precautionary measure. Mild fire damage to your floor but most of it was contained to your room."

"Though if I were you, I would still demand compensation from the front desk," Billy chimed in. "I'm afraid your suitcase of ever-boring clothing is probably charred to a crisp." He paused, assessing Michael with a shrug. "Though that's perhaps not such a crime."

Michael smirked. "Do we know the nature of the explosive?"

"Military grade," Rick said, still lingering behind the others. "The blast was controlled. Anything too crude and we probably wouldn't be standing here having this conversation."

Rick's words were flat, and Michael let his gaze linger on the younger operative carefully. He was shaken.

"None of the guys we've been keeping tabs on showed any indication of this," Casey said. "I mean, their criminal activity was typically criminal but I think we would have noticed someone planting a bomb in the hotel if it was one of them."

Michael straightened a bit more, feeling his strength burgeoning. "So we don't think it's someone we've met," he said.

"Probably not even someone local," Billy said. "Best we can figure, it's a little pre-visit get to know you from our soon to be partner, Jenkins."

Michael considered this. Vaughan was nervous; he was pulling away from Jenkins. Jenkins had to know, had to be suspicious. The best way to control the situation would be to further isolate Vaughan by killing Michael. Or at least scaring the crap out of him.

It wasn't a bad plan, Michael figured, but it had a few obvious flaws. First, Michael was alive. True, it had been Martinez who had saved him but clearly Jenkins had underestimated the people around Michael. Second, Michael didn't scare. Not easily. Not at all. Not even with a few bruised ribs and a headache.

Resolved, Michael nodded. "At least we know where the real power in this relationship is," he said. He attempted to straighten his shirt, ignoring the blast marks on it.

"It's bound to spook Vaughan," Casey pointed out.

"In case he was unaware that his partner was an actual megalomaniac with trust issues," Billy added.

Michael shrugged. "At this point, it'll just endear me to him more. If I can endure it, so can he, and he'll trust me more than Jenkins."

"So you're planning on going ahead with this?" Rick asked.

Michael looked at him. "You have a better idea?"

Rick laughed humorlessly. "Jenkins is planting explosives," he said. "He's not playing around."

"And neither are we," Michael returned. "If he's willing to do this to a potential business competitor, think about what he would do with people who can't fight back? What lines would he be willing to cross? Taking this operation down is now more important than ever."

"But our covers could be compromised," Rick argued. "You said it yourself, he's doing this to a business competitor?"

"He's in up to his neck in criminal activity," Billy reminded him gently. "It's a bit at the point of no return. Killing a competitor is not unheard of in this line of business."

"Maybe," Rick conceded. "But what if he knows that there's more going on here? If he suspects we're not competitors—"

"He has no reason to think otherwise," Michael said decisively.

Rick swallowed, protest still evident on his features.

"And even if he does, going ahead with the plan is still our best bet," he continued.

Rick's face broke.

Michael cut him off, shaking his head. "That's why our plans have contingencies," he said. "That's why we're in this together. Because when something goes wrong, we can pull each other out of harm's way. Just like today. We can do this. Together. We just have to stick to the plan."

Rick's jaw worked, the tension battling in his dark eyes. On either side, Casey and Billy waited stiffly, waiting for an answer. Finally, Rick's head bowed forward and he nodded.

Michael sucked in a breath, testing his lungs and holding back the pain. "Okay," he said. "The plan it is."

-o-

Half the battle when it came to executing missions for the CIA was sounding like he knew what he was talking about. Self confidence was a powerful asset – more powerful than most people gave it credit for. Michael had carried cover stories on little more than bravado, and his simple self assertion that no harm would befall him had saved his life more times than he should admit.

But there was still more to it than that. There were details and nitty gritty facts to contend with. So while they still had a plan – to keep cover, to meet with Vaughan and get the introduction to Jenkins – it did need to be tweaked. After all, Michael's hotel room getting blown to shreds was something of a hiccup.

First things first: keeping up appearances. For that, he sent Rick to make a show of checking in with the front desk and making a scene. Whoever was after them clearly meant business so Michael assumed it was important to make a show to demonstrate that they were still very much in this game.

If he had been a little more up to snuff, he would have done it himself. But, as it was, his clothes were singed and there was dried blood in the hair above his ear. Looking that much worse for wear, staying hidden until he was cleaned up was probably smarter. A little ambiguity as to his fate couldn't hurt their cause.

It was something of a trial to get back inside. The entire hotel had been sealed off for obvious reasons and local police were setting up something resembling an investigation. The problem was, of course, that Michael needed to get back into his room before said investigation really took off. While it was true that his clothes were probably a lost cause, the files were more important.

They were relatively safe; Michael had installed his own lock on the safe as an extra precaution. Besides, it seemed likely that the police would have bigger concerns than cracking the safe, though he suspected they would have interest in it eventually.

Given the fact that someone had gotten inside his hotel room at all suggested that security was more of an issue than he had previously thought, which made him more anxious than ever to secure his documents and formally reassess the plan.

Which meant he had to get back to his room.

Lurking outside, he noted that such a task was actually easier said than done.

Rick was gone and Casey had gone to stake out the front, playing the part of an angry and worried tourist. He'd tried to shoo Billy away, too, but the Scot had merely smirked at him.

"I think I'll stay, thank you," he said.

"We need to get eyes on who's coming and going," Michael said. "We've missed something here."

"Exactly," Billy said. "Which is why I know you're planning some sort of foolhardy move to get back inside."

Michael didn't deny it. "And I'm fully capable of doing it on my own."

Billy lifted his brows. "While I trust implicitly in your abilities, I believe you may be overestimating yourself at the moment."

"I'm fine," Michael said, curtly.

"Your argument might hold more weight if we hadn't just dragged you out of a smoking hotel," Billy pointed out.

Michael glared.

Billy shrugged. "Besides, obtaining reentrance to this fine establishment requires subterfuge and finesse," he said, smiling devilishly. "Two of my specialties."

"I thought your specialties were gluttony and the ability to annoy," Michael quipped.

Billy was indignant. "Next time I get a call about pulling you out of a near death situation, I may just let it go to voicemail."

Michael rolled his eyes. Then he sighed. "I assume you have a plan?"

Billy's face brightened with a mischievous grin. "You're not the only plotting fiend around here," he said.

Michael knew it was true. He just didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

-o-

Like most of Billy's improvised plans, this one started with a smile.

The hotel was well guarded at this point, sectioned off with exits blocked. Strategically, going through the front would be almost impossible. There were just too many people, all of whom were demanding answers and throwing a fit. The back exit to the alleyway was easily their best bet.

At least, that was Michael's assessment.

Billy, on the other hand, had his own ideas.

The fact that it was a burly man wielding a machine gun at the back entrance didn't even give Billy any pause. Instead, he walked right up, brazen and guileless, and smiled.

"While I normally never approach a stranger with a large gun unannounced, I find myself in need of some particular assistance," Billy began. "Do you speak English?"

The man's eyes narrowed for a long moment as he studied Billy. His eyes flicked to Michael, who was hovering just a step behind trying his best to look innocuous. Finally, the man nodded. "I do."

Billy's expression brightened. "Most excellent!" he said. "I know it's proper to learn the language before visiting a new culture, but I admit, I just didn't have the time for this trip. But I promise I'm not like those bloody Americans who think they can come in and do as they please, with everyone catering to their Puritanical expansionist ways."

The man stared.

Billy gathered a breath. "Right. Well, I was wondering if we could perhaps gain admission to this fine establishment," he said.

The man shook his head. "It is currently closed off for an investigation."

"For the bomb," Billy said earnestly, nodding emphatically. "Messy business, I'm sure, and it is such a reassuring pleasure to see the local security forces so hard at work to ascertain the cause and culprit."

It was clear that the man wasn't sure what to say to that. That was the real secret to Billy's success as a charmer. It wasn't just that he was handsome and could flirt with a rock, it was that he knew how to keep talking in such a way that people didn't quite know what he was saying; they just knew they wanted to trust him. He sounded so damn pleasant all the time – earnest and friendly and buoyant – that by the time most people realized he was playing them, it was far too late to do anything about it.

This was effective on women and men alike, and seemed to work with people of all ages, races and linguistic backgrounds.

Billy shrugged, not missing a beat. "The thing is, my friend here is in desperate need of a change of clothes," he said, nodding over his shoulder toward Michael.

Michael offered a pathetic smile as the man looked at him.

"Sorry," he said flatly. "No exceptions."

"Of course, of course," Billy said quickly. "I mean, I understand it but the thing is—" Billy leaned forward, voice dropping with the pretense of trust. "—he's in a bit of a bind. Everything we have is in that hotel and if we don't get him into his clothes then his wife is going to know that he was out all night. Again."

The man blinked, face wavering.

"Fourteen years of marriage all out the window for a silly bomb," Billy said, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry," the man said, and this time there was a hint of real sympathy.

Billy nodded in commiseration. "And the thing is, it's my fault," he continued. "The man is loyal to a fault and I got myself into a wee bit of a scrape last night and the only person I could call was my good friend here."

The man looked at Michael again, with more interest this time.

"Not only did it get him scuffed up, but now I'm afraid it's going to entirely end his marriage," Billy said, sighing dramatically.

The man hesitated. Then he lifted a hand scratching at his neck. That's when Michael saw the wedding ring. Billy must have pinged on that from the start, smart bastard.

"You married?" Billy asked genuinely.

The man nodded readily. "Five years."

Billy smiled. "Glorious years, I'm sure," he said. "Fine, strapping man. A man in uniform no less! Women are fickle, though, aren't they?"

At this, the man's expression finally broke with a smile. He let out a breath and his shoulders relaxed. And Michael knew they had him.

The man's lips turned up in a tight smile, and his eyes were suddenly soft. "They rarely understand the demands on a man's attention," he said.

Billy nodded with fresh vigor. "Exactly!" he said. "So it does seem a pity that my friend here will be forced to suffer added marital peril, all for the lack of access to his hotel room."

This time the man hesitated in earnest. He looked down, and his lips were pursed when he looked at them again. "What floor is your room on?"

"Second," Michael lied.

"The incident was on the fifth floor," the man said. "So I can't imagine you'd be in anyone's way."

Billy clapped the man's shoulder. "Bless you, my good man," he said, as the man sidled out of the way. "Bless you."

-o-

It was a relief to be inside, but it was hardly the most difficult part of their task. Avoiding the forces on the ground level wasn't too bad, and by sticking to a back staircase far from the explosion site they were able to sneak their way to the right floor.

Things got trickier from there. Pressed at the doorway of the deserted staircase, Michael assessed the situation. Security forces were trawling the floor, but not quite haphazardly. A few seemed to be guarding key checkpoints, probably in an attempt to contain access to the floor. The area around the blast was more closely guarded, with obvious investigative personnel both sifting away the debris while simultaneously collecting evidence. What appeared to be techs came and went, items in baggies.

Michael saw them cart away a tattered pair of his underwear and he frowned.

Slinking back, he looked at Billy. "Do you think you can get us in?" he asked.

Billy peeked down the hall, face twisted with a grimace. He shook his head. "That many people is going to require more than a charming smile and a few cajoling lies," he said.

Michael sighed, although he had already known the answer.

Looking back out the hall, he studied the scene for a moment longer. Then, his eyes lingered on the maid's closet across from them.

"I think I have an idea," Michael said.

Billy scoffed. "How many disasters have we begun with those very words?"

Michael had to grin, shrugging one shoulder. "Then what's one more time?"

Billy gestured grandly. "Then after you, o fearless leader."

-o-

They waited until there was a gap in the movement, Michael going first then Billy following behind. It was a quick jaunt across the hall, and Michael could only count himself lucky that the lock on the maid's closet was easy to pick.

Once they were both tucked inside he immediately went to work, gathering supplies. Cleaning products may have been nothing for most people but Michael saw ample opportunities.

Billy slid in beside him, rummaging around and pulling out a bucket. "I would have thought you'd be over explosions after last night," he said.

Michael plucked the necessary items, collecting them quickly on the floor. "I don't mind explosions," he said. "As long as I'm the one in charge of them."

Billy smirked, unscrewing a bottle of bleach. "Only Michael Dorset would think himself capable of controlling an explosion," he said, shaking his head.

Michael started mixing the elements, making the rough guesstimates. "Everything can be controlled," he said, pulling out another bucket to start the second half of the mixture.

Billy swirled the first bucket carefully. "So says the man who nearly got himself killed last night."

"I'm fine," Michael said, sitting back on his heels. "And I'll be better once I get into my room and extract what I need."

Billy rolled his eyes. "You know, you are fairly single-minded."

"That's what Fay used to say," Michael said, examining his work. It was crude, but it'd get the job done. The result would be noisy and smoky, but hardly dangerous.

"Yes," Billy said, "and that turned out so well."

Michael stood up. "Then let's hope this turns out better," he said.

"I can't disagree with that," Billy said.

"Can you handle this?" Michael asked.

"Can I wait until you are in an ideal position on the opposite side of the floor and then create a diversion with these very crudely mixed chemicals to provide you a chance to get into the room unattended?" Billy asked.

Michael smiled.

"Of course, of course," Billy muttered. "Though let it be known that I protest that my skills can be better employed than this."

"Noted," Michael said. "And ignored. Give me five minutes."

Billy glowered. "And not a second more."

And with that, Michael was off.

-o-

Michael moved quickly, darting through the hallways and hiding around the nooks as needed. He got as close as he dared, tucking himself out of sight just out of range but close enough to make a quick dash to the room when the opportunity presented itself.

He had told Billy five minutes; of course, he hadn't exactly looked at his watch so it was all a rough approximation. But he knew Billy and Billy knew him. After years in the field together, being able to assess a situation without ongoing verbal contact was imperative.

So Michael hunkered down, closed his eyes and waited…

He mentally went over his plan of attack. He went over waiting for the room to clear out; went over what he would look for in the room. Safe, first. Clothing, second. Anything else, possibly third. Because he didn't want to buy another toothbrush if he could help it; he just didn't have the time.

But he would. He could. The details were negotiable. The key was to focus on the mission.

Getting the documents, getting out. Meeting up with Vaughan later, arranging a meeting with Jenkins. Infiltrating the organization to gain full access to the clients and suppliers, obtaining evidence of the illegal proceedings to formalize a takedown and shut the operation down from the top to bottom.

The mission. Michael's mission. He could do this. He would do this.

Then there was a crack and a series of booms. Smoke filled the hall and men started yelling. The fire alarm sounded and footsteps echoed. It took a few minutes before the voices drifted; a few more seconds and Michael mentally envisioned the cleared hallway, ready for his next part of the plan.

Eyes open, Michael didn't hesitate. He ducked out into the hallway, keeping his face down. With the smoke he had good cover, but he still didn't need to risk excessive exposure in case someone happened to come that way while the new blast was being contained.

To this end, Michael had limited time. The fresh explosion would force at least a partial evacuation until things were contained and even so, limited personnel would undoubtedly remain on the floor to examine the new blast. Michael had to be fast and efficient.

Fortunately, Michael was good at being fast and efficient when the situation called for it. And this situation – with its clear assassination attempts and other high risks – certainly did seem to call for it.

As he approached his room, the debris got thicker, though Michael noted that Martinez was right. It had been a carefully controlled blast. While the door to his room was gone – splintered and spread across the hall – the damage seemed mostly isolated.

Still, as he stepped through the blackened doorframe the remnants of his suitcase, which had been neatly stowed by the door, were evident. He took care to avoid the biggest and most obvious pieces – he didn't actually want to impede the investigation. If the authorities could link this back to Jenkins, it could only help bolster their case later when Jenkins and company would hopefully be in custody.

In the room, the damage was more pronounced. The wall around the door was buckled and the wall to the bathroom was scorched. The bathroom mirror was cracked and the carpeting had been burned through to the subflooring. The water damage was probably most notable, and Michael realized that even if his clothing hadn't been blown to shreds, they would have been too wet to wear soon anyway.

The explosive had probably been placed as a charge on the door itself, with the trip wire connected to the locking mechanism on his door. This would be tricky to set up – trickier still to escape without blowing oneself up. Which meant a few things. First, whoever did this had been skilled. This meant that Sunday was not a likely candidate. Michael didn't doubt the man's ability to inflict pain and chaos – Michael had compiled the file on him, after all – but his actions rarely had finesse. Even the man following Martinez had lacked nuance. This pointed largely to Jenkins.

Second, whoever did this left by alternative means – probably out the window. If he had more time to investigate, Michael might be able to put together a trail and figure out how he'd been tracked and pegged so easily, especially since the culprit had avoided getting noticed by both Billy and Casey. This again suggested Jenkins' work. Not the man himself, of course, but one of his better trained minions.

Which was a thought Michael hadn't previous considered. The connection between Jenkins and Vaughan had always been solid enough that he had assumed their partnership to be the cornerstone of the entire operation. If Jenkins was recruiting other highly skilled workers to monitor Vaughan, then the partnership was not nearly as equal as Michael may have supposed.

This was why Vaughan was such an easy mark to exploit – he was quite literally the weakest link in the operation. This meant turning him against Jenkins and Sunday would be substantially easier than Michael had thought – but it also meant that leveraging him in regards to the other culprits would be a bit more difficult. Neither Sunday or Jenkins trusted Vaughan, which meant Michael had to be careful.

Michael had to amend his plan to account for this.

Which brought Michael back to his primary purpose. The plan. He had a plan to get his plan and then get out.

Quickly, he stepped over the wreckage, kneeling down next to the in-wall safe. It was scuffed with burn marks, but for once the hotel had not overestimated the quality of its products. It was intact, the locking mechanism still in place. Tucked as it was in the closet space, the local law enforcement hadn't seemed to notice it yet.

Michael didn't catch lucky breaks often, but when he did he wasn't about to pass them up.

Quickly, he pulled out his key, undoing first his external lock before adeptly releasing the standard locking mechanism. Inside, the file was still there, not even marred.

Suddenly, he heard voices in the hall.

His time was up.

Quickly, he grabbed the file, tucking it under his arm. He darted into the hallway head down. As he passed a few other workers he nodded without looking and just kept walking. Cool, calm, and collected.

By the time the voices echoed after him, Michael was already gone.

-o-

When Michael got to his checkpoint with Rick, he was starting to feel the effects of his long night in earnest. Between drinking with Vaughan and nearly getting blown up he hadn't had a lot of time to rest. The fact that his hotel room was now currently a crime scene certainly didn't help matters. He may have the file back in his possession, but he also had no place to sleep.

A lack of sleep came with the job from time to time, and Michael was certainly capable of going longer than twenty-four hours without a little shut eye. But the fact was that he was no longer a young man, and he was physically fit but still wasn't Casey Malick.

In short, he felt it when he didn't sleep. Felt it and probably missed it more than he cared to admit.

Still, the job was the job and without a hotel room -and sensitive files in his possession- sleep was simply not going to happen.

Instead, Michael spent the interlude at a local convenience store, buying a few new pieces of clothing and other personal items before heading back to his rendezvous with Martinez.

When he got there Rick was already in place in the hotel lobby. This was a good sign – the hotel was open again, which could only help the plan stay together – though the increased security was still plainly visible. Guests on Michael's floor had been rerouted to other rooms, but Michael was in no hurry to get a new room reassignment. He knew that once he was associated with the room in question, he'd not only have pressure from Sunday and Jenkins, but local law enforcement, too, and that was something he did not want to deal with.

But he was still all for keeping up appearances.

Adjusting his new shirt, he just wished he didn't feel so painfully conspicuous about it.

For his part, Rick hardly looked bothered. The kid was still the new guy, but Michael had to give him credit: he was good under pressure.

"Anything new?" Michael asked, sauntering up as easily as he could. The local crowd seemed nonplussed by the extra security, but considering that this hotel was in the middle of a popular criminal neighborhood probably had something to do with that. Michael had scouted this hotel as a reason: its clientele were renowned, and not in good ways.

Rick shrugged, back to the wall. "They're letting people back into rooms now," he said.

Michael looked out; Billy was flirting with one of the people from his tour group. Casey was nowhere to be seen, which was probably a good thing considering all the things that had gone wrong lately.

Michael shrugged back. "Just in time for us to check out for the day," he said

Rick nodded. Then, he hesitated.

"Something wrong?" Michael asked.

Rick hedged, then looked up at Michael. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"We're expected," Michael replied.

Rick's expression didn't waver. "You know what I mean."

Michael heard the tone, understood it. Rick was nervous; scared. Michael kept himself still, face composed. "It's all part of the plan," he said neutrally but firmly.

Rick didn't look away. "It's getting complicated," he said.

"It's still important," Michael countered.

"Of course it is," Rick said. "But—" He sighed. "Maybe we should pull out. Reassess. Reconnect with Vaughan when things aren't so tenuous."

Michael bowed his head and pursed his lips. He understood the impulse to play it safe. He fought against it every day of his life. Because everything he did was a careful balancing act – trying to weigh his job as a CIA agent with the wellbeing of his team. It wasn't easy, leading the men who trusted him into the line of fire. But it was necessary.

This mission was necessary. Pulling out would reduce the chance of ever taking the operation down. This was unique timing, while Jenkins was still in the early stages of his development. Plus, with the doubt cast on Vaughan's place in this, Michael suspected the man might not be around long enough to leverage in the future. Vaughan was there and the time to act was now.

That made the risks acceptable.

"It's still part of the plan," Michael said. "That hasn't changed."

"But you dying was never part of the plan," Rick hissed, more than a hint of frustration in his voice.

Michael looked at him – looked at the intensity in his brown eyes – and felt his stomach twinge. Rick was still new at this; near-death was an accepted part of Michael's job, but even after all these years it wasn't necessarily easy. For someone with Rick's level of experience coping after seeing a teammate nearly get killed was easier said than done.

"You're right," Michael conceded.

Rick looked surprised.

Michael kept himself steady. "But it is now," he said. "It has to be. Because what we're doing here is important. Dangerous, but important. We create plans to be flexible; we design situations with fail-safes to keep us protected even while we do what we have to."

Rick's jaw worked. "But if I hadn't been there—"

"You were," Michael said, emphatic now. "And that was no accident. It wasn't even luck. That was part of the plan."

Rick looked ready to protest, but instead his shoulders dropped. He took a few deep breaths and nodded.

Michael clapped him on the shoulder. "You ready to do this now?"

Rick lifted his head, shrugging half-heartedly. "As much as I can be."

It wasn't exactly a ringing endorsement but it was enough. At any rate, it had to be enough.

-o-

If Michael were a lesser man with a lesser team, going right back into the mission might have unnerved him. And not just for the reasons Rick said – though the risk of death was still ever pressing on his mind. Getting blown up did not strike him as an ideal way to go, although the fact that he would leave things undone bothered him more than the idea of not living in general.

No, the problem with going back into the field after such a close call was that he was having to delegate. As team leader, delegation was an innate part of his job. He formed plans and assigned tasks, giving each team member a critical role to complete in order to ensure an optimal outcome.

This didn't generally give him pause – he had spent years with Casey and Billy, and Rick had more than proven himself – but his plans didn't generally seem to be so close to falling apart. He had nearly died, as Rick seemed so set on reminding him, and Michael couldn't afford to track down the culprit on his own. He couldn't even invest any additional attention into making sure it didn't happen again.

Instead, he had to go meet Vaughan, keep the plan in motion and trust that Casey and Billy would not only figure out who tried to kill him, but also how they managed to get the one up on them and to stop it from happening again. A tall order, to be sure, and while there was no duo he trusted more, the thought of not having those elements entirely within his immediate control made him a little twitchy.

Apparently, Michael wasn't the only one.

The minute he got to the bar, Vaughan was easy enough to make out. He was sitting pale faced in the back room, staring intently at the door. When Michael came through, his expression was both relieved and horrified.

"You came," Vaughan said, getting to his feet and fidgeting.

Michael smiled coldly and settled in a chair. A step behind him, Rick followed suit. "Of course I came," Michael said. "A few fireworks shouldn't stand in the way of good business."

Vaughan sat down haltingly, face paling further. "When I heard, I feared the worst," he admitted.

Michael let himself smirk. "Am I to assume then that your worry means you weren't the one who sent someone to kill me?"

Vaughan blinked so guilelessly that Michael had to remind himself that Vaughan was not only a criminal, but practically a traitor to his country. "I wasn't," he said earnestly. "I wouldn't."

Michael didn't doubt him. "But you think you know who did," he concluded.

"Just…suspicions," Vaughan said.

Michael gathered a long breath. "I'm beginning to think this is a bad idea."

Vaughan shook his head, adamant. "No, it's not."

Michael nodded toward Rick. "I have things at stake here," he said. "I have a business to run. If this is going to be more trouble than it's worth—"

"It's not," Vaughan interjected, adamant now. "I mean. It doesn't have to be."

Michael settled back in his seat, glancing toward Rick. Rick inclined his head and shrugged lightly. Looking back at Vaughan, Michael pursed his lips. "How do you figure?"

Vaughan's eyes lit up. "I've been thinking about this," he said. "A lot, actually. And we can make a business plan to help both of us. If we work together on clients we can double our investments. And by pooling resources we can offer discounts to people who streamline their purchases."

"It's profitable," Michael said. "And practical."

Vaughan smiled.

"But you're forgetting the fact that your so-called partners are putting tails on you and putting bombs in my hotel room," he said. "What makes you think they'll be okay with making a deal?"

Vaughan flinched. "We don't know it was them."

Michael gave him a withering look.

"You have enemies, too, I'm sure," Vaughan pointed out.

Michael jerked his head toward Rick again. "And I've got my men watching out for that," he said. "They only thing they can't see coming is the threats they don't know about. Which leaves just two possible culprits – your so-called friends."

"I told you, they're in this for the money," Vaughan said.

"Exactly," Michael countered. "So why won't they just cut us out; keep the profits for themselves, leverage our hard work for their own success."

"It can work—"

Michael sighed loudly, rolling his eyes. "I like you," he said bluntly. "I think we could have a profitable partnership, but it can't be a partnership at all until I know I can trust you."

"I haven't lied to you," Vaughan insisted.

"But your partners are lying to you," Michael said. "These two mystery men who send people to spy on you and men to kill me."

"That's why I need you," Vaughan said. "Together we can become more powerful than they are."

Michael shook his head. "It's too much of a risk."

He was pushing this – and hard. Vaughan was spooked and he was desperate. The entire thing clearly freaked him out and Michael knew it was a delicate game at this point. Vaughan might cut and run, cut his losses and go to ground. If he were smart that was what he'd do.

But Vaughan wasn't too smart, which was how he'd gotten involved in this in the first place. He was only mildly opportunistic and the force of his convictions was less pressing than the power of his acquaintances.

The fact was he was friends with a traitor in the American military and married to a woman with ties to a militant guerilla. His personal life was tied up in his professional life and he was in too deep to back out now.

In short, Michael was hedging his bets on Vaughan not being smart. He was counting on Vaughan being stupidly desperate, opening up to Michael and letting him take the whole thing down. Granted, this would probably save Vaughan's life while simultaneously ruining it.

Of course, that all hinged on what Vaughan said next.

There was hesitation, and for a moment Michael feared he'd planned this too closely on Vaughan's response. Without Vaughan's in, they had nothing.

Vaughan wet his lips, nervous.

Finally, he nodded. "I'll take you to meet them," he said.

Michael kept himself composed.

"Tomorrow," he said. "I'll pick you up and take you to the warehouse where we operate. You can see the thing for yourself. See how we run it, what we carry. All of it."

The intelligence gain from such an introduction would be immeasurable. And yet it was only half of what Michael wanted. "I nearly blew up today," he said. "I want to meet your partners."

"They'll be there," Vaughan said. "One is flying in and we're already doing a three-way meet. You can come and we'll pitch it to them together."

And there it was. Michael would have a positive ID on Vaughan's partners, access to the key shipping destination, and ultimately a viable window into the operation. From there Michael just had to organize a meet to catch them in the act and then everything would fall according to plan.

The satisfaction was so overwhelming that Michael did all he could to keep his smile in check. Instead, he kept himself loose and cool. "Fine," he said. "But I'm bringing my man here. And I'll be armed."

Vaughan nodded. "Of course," he said. "That sounds good. Right? It sounds good."

Michael nodded back but didn't respond. Couldn't respond, because it sounded more than good to him. It sounded like the pitch perfect plan coming together.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Continued thanks for the feedback! I'm glad some of you are sticking with it. Things are going to start picking up now, for better and worse :)

PART FOUR

-o-

Back at the hotel, Michael was not pleased to find that he was the only one who thought that this plan was going well.

"But it _is _going well," Michael explained – again. Ever since they'd met up in the safe room, his well-meaning teammates had lobbed criticism and doubts his way. Normally he liked and encouraged their feedback; today it just seemed frustrating.

"I try not to get hung up on the details," Casey said. He was on the bed, stretching. "But if getting blown up with people trying to kill us on both sides is _well, _then we need to start reevaluating our standards."

"Vaughan's ready to bite," Michael reminded them. "In fact, he's just about ready to hand the whole thing over to us. I think we could tell him we were CIA and he'd still be willing to help us."

"But that just means he's precarious," Rick said. "He's a lot less stable in the business chain than we thought."

"That makes him a prime candidate," Michael said.

"The volatility certainly does go both ways," Billy agreed. He was sitting on the other bed, slouched. He looked tired, deep circles under his eyes. "But that's really not the point now, is it, eh? I mean, shouldn't we be more concerned with the fact that our little secret infiltration is not so secret?"

Michael made a face and sighed. "Do you know who it was that set the bomb yet?"

"All signs point to Jenkins," Casey reported.

"Or one of his very well trained lackeys, at any rate," Billy said, shaking his head. "All intelligence still says that the man hasn't arrived yet. He isn't due in until tonight."

This made Michael frown. "You haven't narrowed down who it might have been locally?"

"Unfortunately, no," Casey said. "We're on a major crossroads of terrorist activity. We've got operatives from every major terrorist network running through here, more than a few of which could have ties to Jenkins with the appropriate background to pull off this kind of hit."

"In essence, we're looking for a needle in a haystack," Billy commiserated. "A very explosive and deadly haystack at that. If we cross the wrong piece of straw we may all meet a less than wholesome end."

Rick swallowed. His face was tight and Michael knew he wasn't going to like what the kid said before he even opened his mouth. "If Jenkins has other people in place here we don't know about then we're even more vulnerable than we thought," he said, eyes darting uncertainly from Michael to the others. "He might already be on to Vaughan, even if he's not on to us."

Michael sighed. "I'm aware of all this," he said. "But I'm not sure I see a better way. This just reinforces the point that Jenkins needs to go down, now more than ever. Turning Vaughan as a witness afterward will just help us nail his ass to the wall. We need to stick with the cover, initiate the meet. The longer we're at this, the more of the network we can take down."

"Unless they kill us first," Casey said.

Michael glared.

Casey shrugged back.

"We can plan for the risks," Michael said. "Both Rick and I will be wired for the meet. You two can follow behind, park at a remote location, close enough to make a move if you need but far enough to set up with the laptop and track the activity. If it goes south, we cut and run."

They did not look particularly heartened.

Billy sighed, dropping his head into his hands and rubbing his forehead. Casey pursed his lips. Rick's shoulders drooped and he bounced his knee.

Michael sighed again. "Okay," he said in exasperation. "Throw your best stones."

"Vaughan's reliable to us but unreliable with Jenkins and Sunday," Rick said. "If they're both after him, then he's already out of the loop. The entire thing could be a trap."

"We are facing a network we don't even know about," Casey said. "We can't defeat an enemy we haven't fully gauged."

Michael turned his eyes to Billy.

The Scot looked up wearily. "We've already defied death twice on this mission," he said. "I hate to think that the third time may be the charm."

Michael took a breath, eyeing them each again carefully. They were nervous, and rightfully so. All their comments had merit. A lot of merit.

But they'd done more with less. His team was good; his plans were solid. They could do this. Ultimately, they had to do this.

Wetting his lips, he straightened. "Vaughan is our in. If they betray him, we can still use him to get in. As long as we're prepared for that possibility, we should be able to avoid any problems," Michael said. He shrugged. "At least, any problems we can't get out of."

Rick looked away.

Michael kept himself steady. "And we'll never figure out just who we're up against until we spend more time in the field," he said, eyes on Casey. "If we back out now, we'll let them all get away. And I don't know about you, but I'm not about to let people who try to kill us get away with it."

Casey's jaw worked but he didn't protest.

Michael looked at Billy. "We've defied worse odds," he said.

Billy smiled, tiredly, and he looked older than normal, older than he should. It reminded Michael that his team was human. That he was asking a lot of them – more than anyone had a right to.

But it was Billy who nodded. "Well, then," he said with something of resignation and something more of acceptance. "I think I'll save the rest of my stones for the enemy. Seems like we may need them."

Rick and Casey were watching him now, their silence support enough.

Michael had to grin. They could do this. They would do this.

No matter what.

-o-

That night, Michael stayed in the safe room. It was a security risk, possibly compromising himself and their safe room, but it was a necessary risk in Michael's mind. He still wanted to maintain a presence in the hotel for his cover but he also wanted to avoid the hotel desk and any security. Talking to them wouldn't blow his cover but it would hinder his ability to move freely, and he wanted to keep his profile as low as possible when it came to the authorities.

He did his nightly routine methodically. He checked his room, secured the exits and ensured that there was no sign of trouble. Before sitting down to go over his plan he used his secure phone to call back for his scheduled check.

Fay sounded less than thrilled. "We're getting a lot of chatter," she said. "And I'm going to assume that you didn't set the blast at your hotel."

"I didn't set it," Michael assured her. "Though it may have been set for me."

"This is getting too dangerous, Michael," Fay said, sounding exasperated.

"This is the job," he reminded her.

"Don't tell me about the job," she said with an incredulous snort. "I was married to you, remember? The job is one of the reasons we're not together anymore."

"Right," Michael said, nodding. "We never did work through the fact that I had to put national security over our dinner plans."

"No," Fay countered bitingly. "We never worked out the fact that you were never happy unless you controlled everything, including the mission, our marriage, and my personal life."

"That's what I said," Michael said.

Fay sighed. There was a long pause and he could almost see her, shoulders tense as she breathed. When she spoke again her tone was quieter, more resolved. "We've gotten some new intel regarding Sunday," she said. "There's been increased movement by his known associates in and out of the city, and there's been at least three minor incidences reported that can be tied to his organization. He's getting more brazen."

"He's planning something," Michael concluded, head tilted thoughtfully. "That makes sense. Do we know what?"

"No," Fay said. "We don't even know for sure where he's located or how Jenkins is managing to get a hold of enough to keep these guys afloat without anyone noticing on his base."

"Well, we should know soon enough," Michael said. "As a potential business partner, I'll have a right to ask those kinds of questions."

"Unless it's a trap," she said.

It was his turn to sigh, reaching his free hand up to rub his forehead. "Not you, too," he muttered.

"So your team doesn't just follow you blindly," she retorted, almost smug.

"No, but they still follow," he shot back.

"Well, maybe they shouldn't," she said flatly.

"You really want to do this now? When I'm on the mission?"

"I just want to know that you understand the risks," she said. "This entire mission could blow up on you at any second."

Michael smiled, feeling the dull ache flare up in his ribs. "Trust me, I know."

"You don't really know," Fay said. "You know it's a possibility, but you think it's some abstract variable you can control."

"I wasn't a good husband. I may not even be a good friend, but I'm good at this," Michael said, keeping his voice steady and even. "I'm good at this."

Fay sighed, long and heavy. "I know," she said finally. "I just hope you're good enough."

Later, when his papers are filed in the new safe and he's lying under his covers, staring at the ceiling, Michael has to believe he is.

-o-

Vaughan was nervous. He kept bouncing his knees and chewing his nails as he alternated his sweaty hands on the wheel.

Michael watched him from the passenger's seat. He sat still, purposefully so, gauging the other man with a growing trepidation of his own.

In the backseat, Rick looked equally nervous, but he hid it better. His face was just slightly pale, eyes a little wider than normal, but his face was composed. The kid was learning, at any rate. That was something.

Something was better than nothing, Michael knew, but it still didn't seem like enough. His teammates' doubts were still fresh in his mind and walking into the proverbial lion's den would have been easier if their guide didn't look like he was sweating bullets.

Michael forced a smile. "You look nervous," he observed.

"What?" Vaughan asked, eyes darting to Michael as he startled in surprise.

Michael kept smiling. "You are nervous."

Vaughan let out a shaky breath, using one hand to wipe his face as he looked back out at the road. "I served three tours in Iraq," he said with a strained laugh. "But at least then I knew I had the entire damn United States military to back me up."

Michael settled back and tried to look confident. "You don't need the military," he said.

In the back, Rick made a small sound in the back of his throat. Michael ignored it.

"You can be in control of your own destiny," Michael continued. "You just have to keep yourself focused."

Vaughan took a breath, then another. Glancing toward Michael, he smiled. "I make a horrible gun runner, don't I?"

It was true. And in the back of Michael's mind, he wanted to tell Vaughan to cut and run, to just get out. He could take his wife and leave the country, make a new life, a better life. Hell, he could even turn into a government witness, trade his testimony regarding Jenkins and Sunday to take the others down.

But Jenkins and Sunday would get away. The network would be scattered but not broken. Vaughan as a witness without solid evidence of people in the act would be a consolation prize, and a poor one at that.

Instead, Michael reached over, patting the man on the shoulder. "Half the battle is pretending like you believe in yourself," he said. "And the rest will fall right into place."

-o-

Vaughan drove them to a warehouse, located well outside the city limits. It wasn't quite in the tribal regions, but it was remote. That made sense; it was close enough to the city for shipments while also being within an acceptable distance to Sunday's probable domain.

It was surrounded by a fence, a pair of armed guards at the gate. They nodded at Vaughan, letting him through. When they parked, Vaughan paused just long enough to take a few breaths before leading them inside.

The interior of the building was open and spacious. There were boxes lined up – the same ones they'd seen in the surveillance photos. That was to be expected. What wasn't expected was how many there were.

The building was almost full. Armed men moved about, unpacking and shifting, taking inventory and prepping.

This was no small scale operation. This didn't even look like sectarian violence. Having this much supply on hand was abundantly dangerous and for the first time since this mission started, Michael thought fleetingly that he might be in over his head. Because this was enough to equip a whole damn army.

Next to him, Rick was taking the revelation with about as much grace as Michael could expect. The kid was good, and if his eyes were a little wide, his face was dutifully composed with sheer determination.

For his part, Michael kept his stride in lockstep with Vaughan as he led them through the activity. They got to a series of small offices in the back and strode easily through one of the doors.

There were two men inside, one seated behind the desk and the other lounging on a chair. When they entered, the one in the chair looked up with disinterest but the one behind the desk stood up grandly and extended his hand to Vaughan with a smile on his face. "Wendell!" he said.

There was no introduction, but Michael didn't need one. He recognized both men from the intelligence photos. Jenkins was more impressive in real life than his file gave him credit for. He was a tall, strapping man who looked older, but not aged, than his years.

Vaughan took it, smiling weakly in return. "Jenkins," he said. He nodded curtly to the other man. "Sunday."

Sunday offered a wincing smile. "How is your wife?" he asked.

"Telling me we should get the hell out of Nigeria still," Vaughan said.

Sunday smirked. "Women never understand the nuance of business," he said.

"Speaking of business," Vaughan transitioned with obvious effort. He stepped back, glancing toward Michael and Rick. "These are the men I told you about. Thomas Vance and Luis Rodriguez."

Sunday looked at his hands with a fleeting glance but Jenkins made his way around the desk, extending his hand to Michael this time. "It's a pleasure," he said as Michael grasped his hand. The handshake was firm as Jenkins continued, offering a nod to Rick. "Vaughan hasn't had a lot of time to tell us the details, but he says you're a brother in arms."

Charming Vaughan had been too easy; this was where Michael's skills as an undercover operative needed to shine. Billy was the charmer of the group but Michael had his own finesse when he needed it. To make this work he would need it now.

He grinned widely. "In more ways than one, it seems," he said.

Jenkins nodded, standing almost at attention. "You've picked drugs, though," he said with surprising ease. "Not that I didn't consider it, but procurement seemed more problematic that way."

Michael kept his look curious but guarded. "I have wondered about your methods," he said. "I'd love to hear more about your operation."

"In good time," Jenkins said. "You've only just gotten here. It's not necessarily polite to talk business before we get to know each other."

"I brought him here for business," Vaughan interjected. He was standing by the wall, looking somewhat uneasy.

Jenkins didn't seem to notice. He waved a hand. "You don't want to share a friend?" he asked. "You two seem to have gotten along so well, I would think you'd have room for a few more."

Michael watched him carefully, watched the confidence of his movements, the casual inflection of his voice. He listened for malice but found none. There was no hint of distrust or undue suspicion. He seemed genuine.

Which made no sense. Not only was this man a hardened criminal and a traitor to his country, but he was also very possibly the man who had tried to kill him in a preemptive strike. Michael had expected him to keep his cool but most people had a tell, some sort of sign of discomfort.

With Jenkins, there was nothing. If Michael didn't know better, he'd think him to be a fine, upstanding citizen.

He wasn't, though.

Michael took a breath and kept his smile firm. "Always room for one more, if everything aligns," he said, guarded but friendly. He gestured to Rick. "My friend Luis and I are in town trying to set up a new network. We ran into Vaughan while getting a lay of the land."

"It's a bit more violent than I'd prefer, really," Jenkins said. "But it has a certain charm."

From the seat, Sunday looked up again, his dark eyes gleaming. "How is your stay?"

Where Vaughan was needy and Jenkins was friendly, Sunday was outright sinister. Michael kept his composure. "Explosive," he said.

Jenkins didn't flinch, Vaughan stiffened. Sunday's smile widened. "This country is not for the weak of heart," he said.

His tone was knowing, almost threatening.

Michael didn't let it show.

Instead, he shrugged. "I can't complain," he said. "My business isn't for the weak of heart."

Jenkins nodded in approval. "Good man," he said. "It's necessary to have a firm grasp on risk analysis in order to do this job. You have to understand the variable involved in order to properly control them for the best possible outcome."

It was a clinical and confident profession and it was one Michael saw the irony in. "Control is vital," he agreed, keeping his gaze firm at Jenkins. "You have to be the one in charge, even with the risks and the dangers."

He straightened himself, leaning imperceptibly forward. Michael knew he wasn't an impressive looking man but he knew how to intimidate, and he knew how to do it well.

"That's how I've operated my life and my business," Jenkins said, not backing down.

It was something to see. Someone with such blind confidence that even when he was probably bluffing, when he was most certainly lying, his total belief carried weight that his words lacked. It wasn't that he had control inherently, but he commanded it with his conviction.

Michael wanted to be impressed. He felt his own control waver.

Rick stepped forward, a little cautious but still certain. "As the potential head of Nigerian operations, I have to insist we talk about whether or not this will actually work," he said. "Mr. Vaughan's idea sounds pretty good in theory, but I'm curious about the practical application."

Jenkins shifted his attention, nodding politely. "Curious with reason," he said. "I'm quite curious myself. Vaughan's idea was unexpected."

Vaughan seemed to tighten his jaw.

Jenkins smiled. "But welcome," he said. He looked to Michael. "Part of control is knowing the right things to delegate and finding the right people to enact plans. Vaughan is a trusted associate. I value his opinion."

There was no hint of doubt.

Sunday looked up lazily. "Perhaps we can cut to the chase," he said. "I grow weary of small talk."

Jenkins sighed a bit, shaking his head. "I'm afraid I may have to indulge Mr. Sunday's inclinations," he said. "If only because we have a rather large deal we're trying to negotiate."

"That was what I was thinking," Vaughan said, stepping forward with clear nervousness. "We know our buyer. If we can get him on the line for ammo and drugs, we can increase our profits."

Jenkins' eyes narrowed in thought. "It's easy enough to pitch it that way," he said. He looked to Michael. "But there are logistical issues. Have you even established your means of transportation?"

"It's not be tested, but it's in the works," he said. "But if we can piggyback on your supply line, then it'd be even easier."

"And riskier," Sunday said, looking intent now. "Why should we help you profit from our hard work?"

"Because you'll profit, too," Michael said. He glanced to Rick.

Rick stepped forward easily. "We're willing to start with a 70/30 split of all profits at the start but will negotiate future contracts based on the level of demand and who brokers the client," he explained.

Jenkins nodded but Sunday was not impressed. "We do not even know if your product is worth purchasing."

Rick looked to Michael, who nodded. The kid reached into his pocket, pulling out a pair of packets. He tossed one to Sunday and the next to Jenkins. "This is just a sample," he said.

Michael didn't let himself miss a beat. "If the talks go well tomorrow, we'll take you on a tour of our facilities and show you what we're capable of."

"We don't _need _this," Sunday said with a huff. "It's unnecessary—"

"It's smart," Vaughan shot back.

"That is because you are a weak man who befriends any man with white skin and a military uniform," Sunday said with surprising vitriol. "My sister has always had horrible taste."

Jenkins looked hard at them both. "Profit is about risk," he said. "These are new elements, which makes them both appealing and uncertain. We can work these caveats out and make an informed decision, but first we need to see if our market will support this kind of conglomeration."

It was a surprisingly measured response. It was reasonable and thoughtful. It was smart. Hell, it was what Michael would do if he were a gunrunner entertaining a partnership with a drug dealer.

And it was civilized. Michael _liked _the man. Which was probably more unnerving than anything else, and that included nearly getting blown up.

Still. This was Michael's mission. This was his mission and he was in control. Until he gave up control, this was_ his._

"I agree," Michael said, keeping himself unyielding. "If you're interested, I suggest we go on the meeting tomorrow and lay the groundwork. If things look good, we proceed with care. If things don't, we'll part ways as friends."

Jenkins smiled heartily. "My thoughts exactly."

"It's not a good idea—" Sunday said.

"That's not your decision," Jenkins shot back coolly.

Sunday slumped, sulking. Vaughan seemed to breathe easier. Rick seemed to relax as well, but Michael couldn't let himself.

Because Jenkins was making this his decision, which was the biggest problem Michael had faced yet. This wasn't Jenkins' decision; it was Michael's decision. It had to be.

It was then that he understood the implicit power struggle that they weren't talking about. Jenkins was watching him as carefully as Michael was watching back.

Mindful, Michael didn't flicker. Instead, he tilted his head, grinning widely. "And a good decision it is," he said, not relinquishing control but not fighting it either.

Because control was a precarious mix of perception and reality. He was used to letting people think they had power while holding it all himself. That was what he was doing here, even as Jenkins tried to do it right back. This was what made Jenkins a good criminal.

It would also what would be his downfall. Because the people who fell hardest were the ones who believed they were in control of their own destiny.

Michael knew that. And for once, he didn't think about the irony at all.

-o-

Rick didn't wait for the door to close in the safe room before he exploded.

"This is a very, very bad idea," he said, voice hitching in that way of his, that way that said he knew better, that way that tried to speak common sense.

Casey and Billy were already there, on the bed and on the chair respectively. They looked far too much like they might actually agree with Martinez.

Michael ignored them, walking over to the other bed and sitting down with a sigh. "It's a very good idea," he countered. "That went exactly the way it was supposed to."

"I know," Rick said, arms flailing. "Which is why I know it's all very, very bad!"

Michael frowned.

Billy pursed his lips. In the dim lamplight he still looked pale, his stubble stark against his skin. "I think your logic is a wee bit muddled there, lad," he said with more weariness than humor.

Rick shook his head, adamant. "I was there," he said. "I saw them. They don't trust Vaughan; he's hardly a player in this. They could cut him out and let us go with him."

"But we're useful," Michael replied.

"The kid has a point, though," Casey said with a shrug.

Rick nodded readily, gesturing with satisfaction to Casey.

Michael glowered.

Casey quirked his eyebrows tiredly. "There's just cause to be suspicious, is all I'm saying."

"In Michael's defense, they are criminals," Billy said, sounding nothing short of exhausted. "Suspicion is part of the job description."

"See," Michael said, feeling vaguely smug.

Rick shook his head, laughing with borderline hysteria. "That's the problem, though," he said. "We've got one who trusts us with his life and is most likely to lose it. We have another who wants to kill us and doesn't seem to care if we know that. And then we have a third, who is acting like a complete professional even when we're veritable strangers who want to sell drugs with his guns!"

"Sounds like a criminal soap opera," Billy commented wryly. "More violence and less sex. Not my kind of show, I'm afraid."

Michael eyed the Scot, noting again his pallor and the small beads of sweat along his hairline. "You sure you're okay?"

Billy scoffed, laughing roughly as he ran a hand through his hair. "A mission in Nigeria tracking down American terrorists wearing a uniform," he said. "Never better."

"One of the little old ladies from Italy has taken a particular interest to him," Casey explained. "He's been fending off criminals and overzealous widows. You can't blame him for being tired."

"You're just jealous that they fancy me," Billy returned. "And that Giuliana is quite generous in her affections."

Casey scowled.

Michael frowned but didn't have time to dwell on it. Not with Rick pacing and seemed about ready to throw a tantrum.

The kid shook his head vehemently. "It is a terrorist soap opera," he said. "And we're acting like we're part of it with absolutely no regard to the fact that the pieces at play here are ones we don't know enough about to actually control."

Michael sighed, giving Rick a banal look. "None of this is outside the plan."

"Which is the problem!" Rick exclaimed. "In my time with the ODS, all missions go outside the plan. If something goes by the plan, then something is horribly wrong!"

"Again, the kid has a point," Casey said. "There was something off with Jenkins. Was he as collected in person as he was in the audio?"

Michael shrugged but Rick interjected, "More. He knows something. More than he's letting on."

"There's no way he knows we're CIA," Michael insisted. "So whatever advantage he thinks he has is really an advantage we have over him."

"Unless he kills us," Rick blurted.

Billy made a face.

Casey chuckled.

Michael worked very hard not to roll his eyes. "We have contingencies for that," he said. "This job is about risks."

"Risks that make sense," Rick argued. "You saw their facility. You saw the amount of ammunition they're moving. We're four guys trying to take down an army. I think we're a bit over our heads."

"We have Casey," Michael said.

"As much as I appreciate the vote of confidence," Casey said, "I might have to agree that we're over-extending ourselves a bit."

"We're fine," Michael said, more emphatically this time. "We go in, build the partnership. Once we close the deal we can call in reinforcements for the delivery and take them all out. Vaughan will turn as a witness and putting the rest away will be no problem. If we're lucky, Jenkins or Sunday will roll over on some of their clients and contemporaries and we're looking at an intelligence boon."

Rick looked like he wanted to protest. But that was the thing about being in control; eventually, other people ran out of things to protest about.

Instead, the kid's face fell, his shoulders slumping as he sank to the chair opposite Billy. "It could be a trap."

"It could be," Michael agreed. "But we still don't know who's onto us." He looked to Casey and Billy. "Any sense of who was behind the bomb?"

Billy looked to Casey, who shrugged. Face drawn, Billy sighed. "There's been a great deal of chatter about all that," he said, and his voice sounded off, strained and tired. "But no one seems to know quite who. Which is unusual since these are the types who tend to claim their crimes and the crimes of others when room for envy is available."

"Which means I don't think it was Sunday," Casey concluded. "If Sunday organized this, then the job would be local and the person behind it would be talked about almost as much as the corpse they recovered from the alley."

Michael weighed this. He had suspected this all along, but Jenkins behavior had showed no obvious signs that this was the case. Such subterfuge was more than good; it was downright impressive.

It also meant that Michael couldn't be sure. He had some good guesses on all this, but if he couldn't read Jenkins then he couldn't presume to understand why the man had tried to kill him – assuming, of course, that Jenkins had tried to kill him at all.

Of course, there was a point to be made for the fact that it probably didn't matter. The attempt was unsuccessful and Michael was more clearly aware of the stakes. He would be extra vigilant during the meeting tomorrow in order to look for any sign of something going wrong. If that happened, they'd pull out.

Easy. Simple.

It would work.

"Oh, my," Billy said. "I know that look. Even in a relatively sleep deprived state, I know that look."

Michael's brow furrowed. "What look?"

"That look of pure, unadulterated thought," Billy continued knowingly. "Your fevered brain is pitching around the intelligence, sifting through it to come to the best possible conclusion."

"You mean he's trying to find a way to face the fact that this mission is out of control," Rick said.

Casey snorted. "And you all say I'm the negative one."

This time, Michael did roll his eyes. "I admit, there are unknowns," he conceded. "But we know enough to proceed."

"We don't know who the client is," Rick said. "We don't know who tried to kill us. We don't know why they tried to kill us. But we're just going to walk in there, let ourselves be surrounded by an army of militants and hope for the best?" He gaped. "And that's enough?"

"We've gone on less," Michael said.

"This is true," Billy said, though he looked a bit regretful.

Casey shook his head. "We also should consider the fact that the local population is getting twitchy."

Michael cocked his head. "Twitchy how?"

"They know something's up," Casey said.

"Lots of chatter," Billy agreed. "And they're not being overly discreet. I know I'm a friendly sort of tourist but I would think they'd be a bit less prone to letting hapless civilians overhear their plans for mayhem and destruction."

"It's the nervous anticipation of a coming conflict," Casey said. "Animals are smart; they run away. People are stupid. They sit around and gawk before they all get massacred."

Rick's face twisted up at the image.

"But the point is," Casey continued, "it's a ominous sign."

"Indeed," Billy said. "When terrorists – tried and true criminals with blood on their hands – start to get nervous, then we are certain that there's actually something legitimate to be afraid of."

Rick wet his lip. "It's getting hot," he muttered.

"Hot," Billy said with a snort. "It's tantamount to a bath fueled by the fires of hell itself."

"Hyperbole aside," Casey said, "we may want to consider some alternative."

Out of habit, Michael's eyes narrowed. "Such as?" he asked, even though he wasn't sure he actually wanted to know.

Casey didn't back down. He held his eye contact steady. "Such as contacting the military and requesting to put a team on standby in case things go south a little sooner than we intend."

Michael shook his head. "They'll want control."

"You say that like we have control," Casey snapped back.

Michael's stomach twisted and he resisted the urge to snap back. Casey's gaze was penetrating. Rick's was equally determined and Billy's was unyielding, if tired.

Jaw working, Michael bucked himself up. "This is our mission," he said, slow and careful. "It's complicated and it's dangerous, but if we bring in any outside control we're going to forfeit our ability to manipulate the outcome. This is not the time to muddy the waters. Not if we want to get out of this alive."

Casey sighed. Billy's head dropped.

Rick shook his head. "And you're sure about that?"

Certainty was a fledgling thing in the spy world. Michael's life was one of lies and deceit; certainty was a rare commodity, hard to find and harder still to retain. It was not so much an issue of unassailable truth, but qualified belief.

Michael didn't waver but looked steadily at Rick. "As sure as I am about anything," he said, the words as much a promise as a proclamation.

Billy looked up again warily. Casey pursed his lips but didn't speak. Rick finally blinked, nodding again. They had their doubts – Michael could see that much – but they trusted him. Against all logic, his team trusted him.

That was a variable Michael couldn't control but couldn't function without.

He just hoped that it was enough. More than that, he hoped he didn't let it down.

-o-

Michael was up before his phone alerted him. Methodically, he showered and shaved, getting dressed in slow, even movements. He ate the granola bar he'd bought yesterday and drank two cups of coffee. At precisely 8 AM, he left his room and headed out.

Martinez was ready for him when he stopped by his room. Together, they took the elevator to the lobby. Rick had a briefcase with paper work and samples in hand. Michael fixed his collar, kept his head high, and didn't bother with small talk.

On their way out, they saw Casey and Billy, arguing with someone from their tour group. It looked innocent but Michael could see the keys to a rental car in Billy's pocket. Casey looked at him and blinked once.

They were ready.

They were all ready.

At least, that was what Michael had to believe as he and Rick stepped out into the sunlight and the next phase of the mission began.

-o-

Jenkins was with Vaughan this time, and the conversation on the way out was amiable. Michael watched them carefully – saw Vaughan's fingers tight and sweaty on the wheel, saw Jenkins sitting with total calm in the passenger's seat – and tried to predict what it meant. Jenkins was holding something back, but any smart leader would do that. The problem was, Michael wasn't sure what.

Rick sat next to Michael. He was more jittery than normal, but he played the role of businessman with a flair that probably should have made Michael proud.

Really, it was perfect.

Jenkins smiled at him from the front seat. "I have a good feeling about today," he said, proud and certain.

Michael studied him, looking for irony or condescension, overconfidence or malice. There was nothing. _He _was perfect.

This was unsettling, except it couldn't be. Michael couldn't let it. This was his mission. This was his mission to make or break._His. _

"Yeah," he agreed, smiling back without hesitation. "Me, too."

-o-

The meet was at Sunday's compound. It was a remote location, as expected, and Michael tried not to feel conspicuous while he adjusted his suit jacket, where the bug was attached as a button. They were miles from civilization, and he and Rick were vastly outnumbered by Sunday's men, but they weren't alone.

They really were outnumbered, though. As they piled out of the car, the area looked as well armed and guarded as most army bases Michael had been to over the course of his career. Jenkins led the way this time, Vaughan hanging nervously right at his tail. As they followed, Rick pressed close, clearly uneasy.

"Quite an operation you have here," Rick commented.

Vaughan twitched and Jenkins just looked back with a courteous nod. "I am impressed with how well it's been developed while I'm remote," he said.

"It's a sign of leadership," Michael told him, looking carefully at the men. They were better organized than he might have expected. Their dress was mismatched but their weaponry looked standardized and properly handled. There seemed to be methodical patrols of the perimeter and apt security checkpoints. "The ability of a plan to function even in absentia."

"I quite agree," Jenkins said.

"It's taken a while to get them trained," Vaughan interjected, a little awkwardly. He was trying to stay relevant – and failing.

"Never an easy thing," Michael commiserated even as he started counting the building – all fortified and camouflaged, this place would be hard to see on satellite – and making mental note of the vehicles – an ample fleet, also fortified, both for speed and protection. "Though I have to say, I'm a bit surprised. I know in the arms business, appearances count, but you look ready to go to war here."

The minute he said it, it felt wrong. There was something about this, something he was missing. He knew the stakes were high – he had known it all along. That was why the mission had gotten the green light – this was a budding terrorist operation. They wanted to take it to the big leagues.

But this was more than suicide bombs and wiping out an enemy sect. This was actually an army. This was actually a war.

The certainty of that revelation was settling over him when Jenkins tilted his head. He didn't look back, kept walking as they neared the closest building. "Looks can be deceiving," he said. "The United States military invests countless amounts of money and manpower to maintain a presence overseas. We have bases in countries all around the world – wherever we are permitted. We arm them and fortify them, but we're not at war in most of those places. Even when we fire weapons and send drones, we aren't at war. It's about presence and self-defense. It's about looking the part and expecting the world to believe you."

Vaughan swallowed. Rick's steps shadowed Michael's own.

Michael didn't slow. One of the guards opened the door and Jenkins walked in, Vaughan not far behind. Michael waited for Rick to go in first and brought up the rear. The guard let the door swing shut behind him.

The building was smaller than the rest, clearly used for administrative purposes. It was sparse with cement floors and thick block walls. The windows were barred and the desk barren.

There was no one there. No client. No paperwork. Nothing.

Michael blinked.

Vaughan was shaking his head. Rick was frowning.

Jenkins turned, hands primly behind his back as he smiled politely. "And sometimes, things are exactly what they seem," he said, voice warm and friendly as he pulled his gun and aimed it steadily at Michael's head.

-o-

Getting nearly killed wasn't typically a daily occurrence for Michael, but he did think of it as a bi-monthly event.

His heart skipped a beat out of the natural human inclination toward fight or flight when mortal peril was introduced into the equation, but really, he just found the entire thing annoying.

First, because Michael had fewer outs for this sort of thing. Billy could talk his way out of a would-be assassination; Casey could just clobber someone and be done with it. Rick would have a bit more trouble, but he still had the earnest puppy dog eyes to make people think twice. Michael was just some average, middle aged guy who most people found forgettable and therefore expendable.

Second, because this was not part of the plan. Michael didn't often plan on being killed but it still never really sat well with him to think just how far off track his original notion may or may not have been.

Third, it further solidified his suspicions about the lack of inherent integrity in humanity. Fay had divorced him for being paranoid and controlling, which was all fine and good, except that he was _right. _

Standing there in Sunday's compound with a gun on him, Michael was _right. _He _had _to be paranoid and _this _was why.

Jenkins was completely composed, the pistol level and unflinching. To Michael's side, Rick was frozen, fingers gripping the briefcase in his hand so tight that his knuckles were white. Sunday was on Jenkins' side, gun not pulled but smirking. On the far side of Rick, Vaughan was standing ramrod straight and whitewashed; he looked like he might actually pass out.

For his part, Michael sighed.

Jenkins looked vaguely surprised. "No denial? No begging?"

Vaughan shook his head. "What the hell is going on here?"

"There's no client, is there," Michael presumed.

Jenkins was nonplussed. "There's a client," he said. "I just moved our meet back to tomorrow. I have other business to attend to today."

Vaughan gaped. "What do you mean, other business?" he asked, his voice hinging with desperation. "We're supposed to close a deal, make this partnership work."

Michael cast a sideways glance at Vaughan. "He played you," he said. He looked back at Jenkins. "And me."

Vaughan laughed, incredulous. "But we can make so much money!"

"And he can make just as much if he cuts you out of the operation altogether," Michael said, reading the nuance in Jenkins' calm features.

"It's not just the money," Jenkins said, almost by way of assurance. "This entire operation is about more than money, not that you ever particularly realized that."

Michael inclined his head just slightly, seeing the flash of passion in Jenkins' easy eyes. That was something he'd missed, or misread anyway. Jenkins was a true believer. He had no fear because he believed what he was doing was right. He was a soldier, through and through, and that was why he'd never come across as a criminal. He was a soldier, trained and confident and totally dedicated to his cause.

He was just a soldier for the other side.

The revelation provided sudden clarity. This was why Vaughan was on the outside. Because Jenkins hadn't wanted a business partner, he'd wanted a compatriot. When Vaughan had proven his loyalties elsewhere, Jenkins had deemed him a liability. Vaughan's insistence on bringing Michael onboard had only proven the point, that Vaughan was a bad match.

The fact that Jenkins hadn't just offed Vaughan but dragged Michael and Rick into meant he was thorough. He didn't want any loose ends. He also wanted to prove a point, to show Vaughan what this was all about.

In some ways, this was good news. The intelligence gain was more than Michael might have hoped. After all, now they could identify Jenkins as a proponent of terrorism and officially label him as a traitor and enemy with active plans against the United States.

The bad news, of course, was that Michael hadn't planned on a man hoping to eradicate his own country.

And the fact that he may not live to tell the tale was something of a bother, but there was solace in the fact that he was bugged so the intel was still secure.

Not that Michael planned on dying. Dying simply wasn't in the plan.

"You're a man with a cause," Michael said.

Vaughan's face screwed up. "A cause? What cause?"

"The cause of your people," Sunday interjected, words dripping with venom.

Vaughan shook his head. "I'm supplying you with guns, what more do you want?"

"They want justice," Jenkins said. "They want their plight to be acted upon. Around the world, nations condemn violence and send well wishes. But no one acts. No one actively strives to return the power to those who deserve it."

Rick seemed to tremble next to him, just for a moment. Michael took a steadying breath.

Vaughan, however, was having no such luck. He flung his hands out. "What are you talking about?"

Jenkins' eyes narrowed. "I'm talking about the precarious balance of power in the world," he said. "Nations like ours, with resources and money and technology, police the world as though it is our right. We have infinite wealth and yet all we spread is vitriol and violence."

Vaughan's breath seemed to catch in his throat. "You're insane," he said. "You're really insane. I mean, I knew you were a low down son of a bitch but I thought you were just selfish."

"I'm not the one who's selfish," Jenkins said. "I don't want money or power for myself. I want to give these people what they really need. The means and capacity to defend themselves."

Michael smirked. "That's a nice spin," he said. "What you want to do is create an army to kill Americans, most likely the people who have fought and died by your side."

Jenkins looked back at Michael, smiling in bemusement now. "Says the drug dealer who wants to infect the minds and souls of innocent people."

So Michael wasn't here just to prove a point. Jenkins wanted to eradicate him as well, on principle alone.

Vaughan shook his head again, more adamantly now. "We're just trying to make money!" he said. "That's what this is about!"

"If that's what this is about, then I wouldn't be holding this gun," Jenkins said, far too rationally for the situation. His finger was still on the trigger, aim steady, but eyes slowly sparking to a fire.

He would fire. And soon.

Michael cleared his throat, trying to regain control of the situation. Casey and Billy would be on their way, Michael was sure of that. When this thing went off script, they would have packed up and been on the road, close enough to strike in case things got worse.

Things were going to get worse, Michael had a feeling. Unless he could get it together.

"You want an army," he said, louder now, refusing to back down. "And you've clearly gone to great pains to arm them. Are they trained?"

Jenkins regarded him cautiously.

Sunday sneered. "We have trained ourselves for years."

"Which hasn't exactly got you anywhere," Michael pointed out. "No, that's why Jenkins is here, isn't it? To help with training? To organize an army that is capable of tactical strikes against an enemy he knows very well."

Sunday didn't really like that answer, but Jenkins nodded.

"Vaughan's has experience in this," he continued. "More than that, he has ties and access, something you don't have."

Jenkins didn't say anything, didn't take his eyes off Michael.

Michael didn't let himself show fear, not even as the gun didn't waver from his chest. "I also have that kind of experience."

Jenkins shook his head. "I don't trust drug dealers as a general rule," he said.

"But you can trust my money," Michael said. "Vaughan's right. The profit margin is impressive."

"You're buying people's souls," Jenkins countered.

"So we don't sell to your allies," Michael said. "We sell to your enemies but use the same supply routes to streamline costs and still turn the profit. And you can use the infusion to further prepare your men for whatever missions you deem fit."

It was a good plan, actually. He'd pulled it out of his ass, of course, but Michael could produce good results under pressure. It was one of the reasons why he flourished in the CIA.

But Jenkins shook his head. "You're not trustworthy."

"Trust is bought," Michael said. "And we all have our price? Don't we, Vaughan?"

He looked at Vaughan, forcing the man to meet his eyes, hoping he understood. Not for the mission, at this point. The mission was in a precarious state of flux, and Michael would deal with that – he would – but right now he had to keep the man alive. And the only chance in hell he had to do that was to make him play along.

That was the problem with assets, especially those who didn't know they were being used. They didn't pick up on hints, not when they thought they were being betrayed, not when they thought things were spiraling rapidly out of control.

Vaughan's face was pale and he was sweating. He just stared, posture rigid and jaw set so hard that it looked like it might actually hurt. He said nothing; Michael doubted he could speak at all.

Jenkins shook his head. "You assume I want to pay a price," he said.

That was the assumption and Michael knew it was a bad one. But he could play this. He had to play this. He had to adapt the plan, had to work it so things still came out right. This was his mission; he was in control. He could do this.

He would do this.

He smiled, hands out in easy placation. "You have to remember the big picture," he said. "Every successful military conquest has come at a price. They don't write about that in history books, but you and I know better. Drugs in the hands of drug addicts is inevitable. You can finance your success of their stupidity, and I can help you. I can give you the power you need to enact change. Trust me."

It was an audacious thing to say. To ask a criminal to trust him. To ask a traitor to trust him. To ask the man holding a gun on him to _trust him. _

But Michael had to be bold if this was going to work. This plan was all or nothing at this point.

All or nothing.

Jenkins looked at him, regarded him carefully. His aim dropped, nodding slowly. "You think we can make this work," he said, almost curious.

Michael felt himself breathe but he couldn't make the pressure in his chest unfurl. He heard Jenkins' words but there was still something. Something off.

Rick didn't move next to him. Vaughan was standing, white as a ghost. He shook his head, mouth open.

Michael turned to shake his head, to shut him up.

Jenkins smiled.

Michael blinked and knew what he'd missed.

From Jenkins point of view, there was one way to make this work.

All or nothing.

Michael closed his eyes as the gunshot split the room.

All.

Or nothing.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I'd apologize for the cliffhanger in the last chapter but I'm not really sure how sorry I am! LOL!

PART FIVE

-o-

Michael kept his eyes closed and listened. Heard the sound of his heart, pounding in his chest. Heard the sound of his breath, moving in and out, in and out. If he listened hard enough, he could almost hear his blood rushing through his veins, draining from his head and centralizing in his core.

He heard Rick gasp, Jenkins' gun clicking another bullet into the chamber.

He heard the body hit the floor.

Swallowing hard, Michael opened his eyes. Jenkins was still smiling but Vaughan was on the floor, a neat, clean hole in his forehead. His eyes were open, the pool of blood splayed out, growing by the second.

"I don't know about you," Jenkins said with a shrug. Next to him, Sunday looked almost gleeful. "But this is working very well for me."

He lifted the gun again, inclining his head.

"Dead men are easiest to trust, after all," he said, steadying his aim at Michael.

Michael's stomach churned violently and he tried to think. There was no way out. They were surrounded by armed guards, and Michael was armed but he'd never get to his gun before Jenkins killed him. Rick might get a shot off in the interim, but he'd never get out.

They were backed in a damn corner and Michael had no plans for that. No plans, no recourses, just—

There was a sound outside, something in the distance. People were yelling; a car was revving its engine. There was gunfire and the engine got closer.

Jenkins frowned, nodding toward Sunday. "Go check that out," he muttered, his calm blanching ever so slightly.

Michael did his best not to smile. Because he was still the one in the corner but he did have a plan. There was one recourse.

He couldn't help it; he grinned as Sunday made his way around the desk and moved toward the door. "I would have to agree," Michael said.

Jenkins' frowned deepened as the melee increased. His aim wavered and Michael didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, taking Rick with him. Flinging himself as hard as he could, he yanked Rick across the room while putting as much distance between himself and the wall behind them as possible.

They hit the ground hard, the cement rubbing roughly even through his shirt. He curled, protecting Rick as best he could when the entire building shook and the wall behind them caved in as a Jeep crashed through.

As the rubble settled, Michael sat up, still grinning.

Because there was just one thing to do when his back was against the corner: Blast the whole damn wall to pieces.

And then run like hell.

Sunday was groaning and Jenkins was spread on his back, half covered in debris. Vaughan's body was entirely obscured.

Pushing himself up, Michael didn't stop to gauge his own condition. Instead, he reached down, pulling Rick up by the arm. The younger operative blinked hazily, not resisting as Michael hauled him to his feet. Martinez wavered but didn't fall, and Michael slung his arm around his shoulder, dragging him along as he made his way to the car.

Billy was in the driver's seat, window down. "Someone call a taxi?" he asked. There was a small cut on his forehead, the blood stark on his pale face.

Still, it was probably the most beautiful face Michael had ever seen. "I may have to complain about the slow service," he groused, opening the back door and pushing Rick inside.

"Americans are such an impatient lot," Billy muttered disapprovingly.

Casey turned in the passenger's seat, assessing them carefully. He had a gun in his hand, another one in his lap. There was a discarded on between the seats and a handful in the back. "And you are all far too chatty," he muttered. "Now let's go before someone gets their act together enough to follow us."

"Sounds like a plan to me," Michael said, propping Rick up on the seat. "Let's go."

Billy didn't need to be told twice. He hit reverse hard, and the tires bumped over the rubble. Gunfire broke out and Michael ducked, reaching for one of the spare guns instinctively even as he pushed Martinez below the line of fire. Casey was already returning fire, fast and effective, as Billy put the car into drive and slammed on the gas.

Michael braced himself as the car lurched forward. Casey fired a few more shots as they fled and bullets pinged off the Jeep's exterior as Billy navigated throughout the compound. Michael could see their entrance – the gate was decimated, the checkpoint in tatters. There were men there, swarming in disarray.

"They'll move," Billy hissed under his breath.

"They're trying to kill us," Casey said, shrugging. "So either way."

Michael shook his head. "Just get us the hell out of here."

Billy gritted his teeth, making a face. "Aye," he said, fingers tightening on the wheel. "Hold on."

Michael obeyed reflexively, keeping his grip on the gun as he steeled himself, keeping low as Billy pressed the accelerator to the floor and kept going. The men scattered. Gunfire erupted and Billy broke the barrier, plunging them headlong back to safety.

-o-

They were a few miles out when Michael remembered to start thinking again.

Absence of thought was not common for him; usually, he had trouble shutting his brain off. But the entire situation had thrown him – from misjudging Jenkins' true intention to witnessing Vaughan's murder – Michael was still reeling too much to think.

Being shell-shocked after that sort of thing was probably to be expected. It was also wholly unacceptable. Michael didn't have time for it.

He blinked and cleared his throat. Rick was still slouched low in the seat, but his eyes were open and alert, if somewhat bewildered. In the front, Casey was still holding his gun, eyes keen out the windows. Billy was at the wheel, face as white as his knuckles as he navigated them on the winding dirt roads.

They were silent. Waiting.

Waiting for him.

Michael took another breath and found his bearings.

"We need a secure location," he announced over the sound of the wheels on the road.

Rick's breath caught in what sounded like a laugh. Billy's jaw tightened but he kept his eyes forward.

Casey looked back, eyebrows tweaked. "We're in the tribal regions of Africa," he said. "Every other road leads to a budding terrorist organization."

"I'm not going to be too picky about where," Michael said. "Someplace quiet, off the beaten track."

At this, Billy scoffed. "There's not even a track to beat," he said.

"You have something?" Michael asked.

Billy shifted; he looked a little ghastly, sweaty and pale, but there wasn't time for that. "Aye," he muttered.

"Good," Michael said. He turned to Rick, giving the younger man a real look for the first time since they'd left. "You okay?"

Rick blinked, eyes wide but clear. There was blood smeared on the side of his face, matted into his hair above his right ear. He looked too young like that. His face darkened though. "It's over," he said. His voice was hoarse but he swallowed, nodding now. "The mission – it's over, isn't it?"

It was Michael's turn to blanch, although he tried hard not to let it show. It was a point he had to consider, though. Now that the pressing need to escape alive was out of the way, the shambles of the mission did have to be reckoned with.

"We didn't hear the last," Casey said from the front. He glanced purposefully toward Billy. "Some of us were not handling the pressure well."

Billy made a face. "They were going to be killed."

"Which is why we were going to rescue them," Casey countered.

"Which is why I had to hurry!" Billy exclaimed, lifting one hand from the wheel to gesture wildly.

"And your timing was impeccable," Michael assured them, hoping to circumvent the argument he knew would ensue. "And you didn't miss much. Jenkins is in a lot deeper than we thought."

"And Vaughan?" Billy asked. "I meant to look for him but with the wall and the gunfire, I seemed to have other things on my mind."

Michael's throat constricted. "Vaughan's dead."

The pronouncement was cold, sober. No one reacted; no one dared to. More than that, none of them had to. They understood the implications. Vaughan was their mark – a criminal – but the loss of life was never something they relished.

"So we're looking at more than simple arms dealing," Casey assumed.

Rick snorted.

Michael cast him a look but continued. "He's organizing an army."

"In the name of social justice," Rick added.

Casey rolled his eyes. "This is why I never fight for abstract causes," he said.

"Says the man who has given his life and liberty to the unyielding will of the CIA," Billy pointed out.

"Says the man who believes in social order as a means of preserving my own general well being," Casey said. "Enacting subversive measure to keep the masses safe and in check is beneficial to everyone. Transferring power out of some outmoded notion of justice doesn't. Besides, I like a job that pay me to express my frustration through violence."

"Yes, well, I suppose we should be relieved you have a more mainstream understanding of social justice and a keen grasp of the tenuous balance of power that keeps the world safer," Billy said. His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, meeting Michael's. "Do we know what their plan is?"

Casey pursed his lips. "Better question: do we know what _our _plan is?"

That was the question. The question Michael needed to answer. The question Michael always answered. The question Michael didn't know how to answer.

His stomach churned. "I'm still working on that."

-o-

Billy didn't explain how he found the place, and Michael didn't ask. Billy had an innate sense of direction when it came to this kind of thing, which was why he was the best driver of the group. It wasn't so much his skill as it was his instincts.

So when they pulled up to the decrepit warehouse down a straggly dirt lane, Michael took it in stride. A stroke of good luck in an otherwise disastrous mission. Michael didn't usually take to luck but he'd be foolish to reject it when it actually did come his way.

Inside, the place was abandoned. The windows were broken but the walls were solid. There was a hole in the roof on one end, but there was enough space to park the Jeep out of view and plenty of area to set up and take stock.

Not that there was anything good to take stock of.

The first concern was the well being of his men. Missions were missions; some went well, others didn't. Success and failure in the field was measured one way in reports. For Michael, it was simpler than that. Getting his men out alive and whole was paramount. No amount of intel could ever justify anything to the contrary.

He started with Rick. The youngest member of the ODS was clearly the shakiest. His eyes still had a shell-shocked quality about them, even as he sat up and started engaging in conversation. He'd taken more hits in the dramatic rescue than Michael would have liked, but while the head laceration was clearly bleeding, the kid didn't seem to have a concussion if his pupillary response was any indication. He was pale and sweaty, but he had nearly almost been killed, so Michael was inclined to let that slide.

Casey's head wound was clearly less impressive and it showed no signs of slowing him down. He unloaded the weaponry, creating an easily accessible stockpile before maneuvering some of the leftover crates in what Michael could quickly identify as a defensive formation. Casey wasn't one to let injury slow him down, but even then, Michael could detect no sign of weakness that he needed to be concerned about.

Billy was another story. In the dim interior of the warehouse, Billy's appearance was shocking – rather, would be shocking if Michael was one to experience shock. At the very least, it became quickly apparent to Michael that Billy's weariness from earlier was mounting to a full fledged illness. Probably a cold, from the plane ride, no doubt. Or, if they were unlucky, the flu.

The ODS wasn't big on luck, so Michael wasn't sure he wanted to know which option was true just yet. As it was, Billy was dragging. He was clearly trying to hide it – helping Casey arrange the crates and handing extra ammo off to Rick – but his movements were slower than normal. His skin was waxy, the sheen of sweat no longer easily attributed to stress.

This wasn't perfect, but at least they were all still alive, which Michael hadn't been so sure about a half hour ago. He had to take what he could get.

And then he had to make it better.

When Casey came back with the last load from the Jeep, Michael took a deep breath and asked the inevitable. "We all okay?"

Rick looked at him. Casey snorted. Billy wet his lips and coughed hoarsely before asking, "You mean besides the part where the mission fell apart in a total and complete debacle of spectacular proportions?"

"Or the part that we compromised our cover and lost our only access to Jenkins?" Casey pressed, sitting down on one of the crates next to Billy.

Rick was pressing a wad of his shirt to his head. "Or the part where we stood there and let Vaughan get slaughtered?"

They had points – valid points – but Michael didn't need to hear them. Because he already knew. Better than they did. These things were his responsibility. These were his failures. But dwelling on that wouldn't fix any of it.

He pressed his lips together, refusing to give in. He didn't even sit. "I admit, it's less than ideal—"

Casey and Billy didn't even have it in them to protest. Rick scoffed loud enough for them all, though. "You keep saying that," he said.

"We just need to plan—"

"The plan failed!" Rick interjected, almost hysterical. He took a ragged breath and then shook his head. "The plan_ failed._Vaughan is dead, our cover is compromised, and there's no way we'll be able to keep a tail on Jenkins or Sunday. They'll both go to ground after the meet tomorrow."

The minute Rick said it, he stopped. He suddenly knew.

Just like Michael knew.

Nodding, Michael kept his enthusiasm in check. That was never easy for him; when he had a plan forming, when the pieces were coming together, it was all he could do control the burst of energy that made him feel young and invincible again. Casey liked to fight for the rush of adrenaline, Billy liked to charm people for the same reason. Michael didn't need that. Michael just needed to plan.

"Exactly," he said. "Which means we still have time."

"Time to do what?" Rick asked. "Get ourselves killed for real this time?"

Casey shrugged apologetically. "The kid has a point," he said. "Now that Jenkins has us pegged not only as irrelevant and evil but as a well equipped enemy, he's going to be on his guard more than ever."

"And I'm guessing that he's not going to be overly keen on seeing us walking up to his front door and asking nicely for a second chance," Billy said.

Michael shook his head. Not that they were wrong, but the fears weren't relevant. "We're not going to ask nicely," he said. "And let's forget about the meet. Getting the buyer was always part of the plan, but that was when we thought Jenkins was a gun runner. He's clearly got much larger aims. If he's making an army, then we need to take down the army now while we have the chance."

"He could ship out tonight," Casey said. "It'd be prudent."

"But not practical," Michael said. "We did damage, which means they've got a mess to clean up. They can't leave everything behind because they don't have enough supplies to just start over."

"And they need this meet," Rick said, almost reluctantly. He sighed, shaking his head. "If what Jenkins really is trying to finance an operation on that scale, he's going to need all the liquidity he can get. Now more than ever."

Casey nodded thoughtfully. "So they won't want to leave their supplies behind and they won't want to cut out before the meet," he said.

Billy clucked his tongue. "This is why I never pick up my messes," he said. "Just leaves you vulnerable."

"Your apartment should be condemned but the idea's the same," Michael agreed.

"I'm insulted," Billy said, chest puffed out indignantly. He coughed, swallowing with obvious difficulty. "Not wrongly so, but insulted nonetheless."

Michael didn't even stop to roll his eyes. "This means we need to make a quick, surgical strike," he said. "If we can take out Sunday and Jenkins, the rest of the unit will be in disarray. Cleaning them out shouldn't be a problem if we can secure them."

"They won't go down without a fight," Rick pointed out.

"I would be disappointed if they did," Casey said.

"Yes, we certainly wouldn't want this mission to start being _easy _now," Billy said. He lifted his eyebrows. "Not when we have such an impressive string of disasters going."

Michael couldn't suppress his grin. "So are we agreed?"

"To throw ourselves with abandon back into a fray that is indubitably stacked against us?" Billy asked. "Count me in. I certainly haven't had my fill of near-death experiences yet on this mission."

Casey shrugged. "The odds are stacked against us," he said. "Which is just the way I like it."

They turned to Rick, who was looking at the ground. Finally, he nodded, lifting his eyes. "We're too far into this," he said. "We know too much. We've lost too much. We can't turn back now. We just can't."

Michael nodded, their affirmations swelling in his chest with the newfound certainty found only in team unity. They were together. They were united. They could do this. They_ would _do this.

"Okay," Michael said. "We have some work to do."

-o-

Michael understood that sometimes the best plans were the simplest plans.

However, a plan that consisted of: attack compound, capture leader, get out alive was a bit too simple, even for Michael.

But that was what he had.

To his team's credit, they didn't seem too upset about Michael's plan and they were somber as they reorganized the gear. Casey took to retrofitting the Jeep to better accommodate weaponry while Rick sort through their remaining ammunition. Billy was checking the rest of their supplies – a smattering of tools, a sparse first aid kit and various emergency items – while Michael sat on a rock outside and watched.

The sun was high in the sky by now and burning bright. Michael wanted to leave sooner rather than later, if only because the less time Jenkins' army had to recuperate, the better off their assault would be. Normally Michael didn't like to base his plans on perceived weaknesses of others, but he didn't have a lot of options this time.

People responded differently to nerves. Rick paced. Casey glared. Billy fidgeted. Michael sat.

Stillness was essential for him. He needed to settle everything else around him in order to control his jumping thoughts. Normally, it helped.

Today was another story.

Watching his team, he couldn't help but think he was missing something. Missing everything.

Billy had sorted through the bags, loading the last one. He turned back toward the building, probably to make one last sweep, when he wavered on his feet. His body seemed to convulse slightly, and the Scot looked ready to topple.

Concerned, Michael tensed. Billy caught himself, using one hand to lean on the open back of the Jeep. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he looked tentatively at Michael with a sheepish smile.

"I've never been one for such arid heat," he said. "My Scottish disposition tends to thrive in colder temperatures. Give me a frigid winter and then you'll see me at my finest."

Billy, in typical Billy fashion, was redirecting. The Scot's cheeks were flushed, contrasting with his pale forehead. He was drenched with sweat, soaking his hair and clearly visible on his shirt. His breathing was visibly labored, each inhale an obvious effort as he sat cautiously, almost guarding his stomach.

"You sure you're up for this?" Michael asked, even though he knew what Billy's answer would be.

"Aye," Billy said, not to disappoint. Carefully, he eased himself onto the open bed of the Jeep, sitting gingerly.

"You don't look so good," Michael observed.

Billy shrugged. "My headache is flaring up a wee bit," he said. His face seemed to pale for a moment and he swallowed roughly, as though against the bite of nausea.

Michael lifted his eyebrows. "In addition to the coughing and fever?"

Billy didn't even try to deny it. "Might as well add a little drama to things," he said.

"If you're too sick to go," Michael began.

Billy made a face. "I'd never hear of such a thing," he said, clearly stomaching another wave of nausea. "Besides, it'd be a shame to miss the climax of the mission after all this."

Michael regarded Billy warily. He glanced toward the front, where Casey and Rick were still working. "I'm serious," he said. "If you're not up to it—"

Billy quirked his head to the side, smiling just a little. "What? I'll get to stay here, by myself in the middle of the tribal regions?" he said. "I'd prefer to take my chances with Jenkins' army and the common cold."

It wasn't a cold and Billy knew that as well as Michael did. But the Scot had a point. They were too remote now; there was no place for Billy to stay behind, even if he agreed to it.

Still, Michael didn't like it. Billy looked bad, and Billy was skilled at making people see what he wanted them to see. If he couldn't hide the illness, then he was suffering in earnest. "Things are going to get pretty dicey in there," Michael said cautiously, because it did worry him. All of it.

Billy's smile was wan. "Which is why you need to be focused on the plan, not my struggling autoimmune response," he said. "Jenkins is a much more formidable foe than we expected."

Michael's jaw worked. That much was an understatement. "We'll get him," Michael said, trying to rally his own confidence.

Billy nodded, but hesitated. "You are certain about this?" he said. "This mission has been one surprise after the next. I know usually we try to plan for a little less chaos, all appearances to the contrary."

Michael sighed. Billy's question wasn't cruel or even subordinate. It was honest. After these years together, they understood each other, and Michael recognized Billy's question to be as much about the Scot's own uncertainties as it was an invitation for Michael to further refine his plan.

"I'm certain it's all we can do," Michael said. "The attack earlier today will make Jenkins' reevaluate things, but he won't quit. He's got too much invested in it at this point, but he will retreat and reassess his strategy before moving out. We'll be lucky if we catch word of anything he's up to in time to stop it after this."

Billy's head bobbed. "Hard to imagine," he mused. "How does a man go from serving his country in the most fundamental way to plotting its demise?"

Michael shrugged. It wasn't something any of them would ever truly grasp, Billy more than most. Billy had more reason than any of them to doubt the justice decreed by governments, but he was steadfast in his service, more idealistic than Casey or Michael combined. "It can be easy to lose yourself when you're in service," he said. "Too many years following orders. If I hadn't been recruited to the ODS, I don't know how I'd have coped."

Billy coughed discreetly, making a face and shaking his head. "That would never be you," he said. "You are a paranoid bastard but your moral compass is inexorably fixed at true north."

Michael let himself smile in return. "I wish I could be more certain of it sometimes," he admitted. "But I understand Jenkins better than I'd like to admit."

"His plans and methods, perhaps," Billy agreed. He pointed to his head with one finger. "You do have a maniacal brain at times."

"Sometimes I worry," Michael said. "I'm so busy planning that I wonder if I'm losing sight of the big picture I'm working toward. It wouldn't take much and we could go rogue entirely."

"Aye, this is true," Billy said. His expression seemed to waver just for a moment before he pulled it back into a smile. "And it's happened more than once. But not to you. Too many people with a God complex isolate themselves. You will always have us to talk you back down to earth, at least every now and then."

That was the difference, Michael knew. The key difference. Michael liked to plan and control and plot, but he was only as good as his team. They improvised the details and poked holes until the thing stood on its own.

Michael nodded. "So you're sure you're good to go?"

"I'm sure about following you," he said. "To the brink of hell, if necessary." He hacked again, wiping a hand across his forehead and airing his shirt briefly. "Literally, it seems."

Michael got to his feet, smirking. "You know I wouldn't take you to hell," he said, walking close to Billy and patting his shoulder. "Not without a very, very good reason."

Billy grinned at him. "Then, by all means," he said with as much vigor as he could clearly muster, "lead on."

-o-

There was only time to go over it once.

"The key to this is speed," he said. "There's no way we can keep our approach secret, so I want us going full throttle."

Billy nodded. He still looked sick – maybe worse now, coughing and holding his stomach in equal turns – he was mostly upright, leaned against the Jeep. "I usually prefer an approach with a bit more finesse, but a nice blind charge does make a certain point," Billy said.

Michael turned his gaze toward Rick and Casey. "Once we're inside, we're going to have to split up. Jenkins is our main priority. Sunday, too, if we can find him. If we all fan out from the entrance, then we'll have a better chance at taking one or both of them alive."

"They're not going to take kindly to an assault," Casey pointed out.

"Which is why we're going for incapacitation," Michael said. He hesitated but had to say it. "By any means possibly."

Casey inclined his head. "I just needed to know my limits."

"As far as I'm concerned we can't have limits on this one," Michael said. "If we let Jenkins get away, then all of this has been for nothing. But just remember, we do want him alive if at all possible."

"Jenkins isn't stupid," Rick reminded them. "He might hole up."

"He's also not a coward," Michael said. "Men like Jenkins, they don't hide. Not when their men are on the line."

"How can you be sure?" Rick asked. There was a small bite to his voice, but the question was valid. Earnest, even.

Michael held his head high. Met Rick's eyes and didn't waver. "Because that's what I would do," he said. "Jenkins may be a crazy son of a bitch, but he's a good leader. He wouldn't have gotten this far if he wasn't. He'll be there, and he'll come out firing with the rest of them."

Rick stared back, long and hard, but he didn't disagree.

"Not to be mincing the details, but do we have a timeline on this thing?" he asked. "We won't have two way radio on the ground. When should we assume that a retreat is in order?"

"Five minutes," Michael said decisively. "Based on the size of the compound and the number of men there, five minutes should be enough time to get in, get Jenkins, and get the hell out."

"And Sunday?" Rick prompted.

"He'll come out even more fast and furious," Michael said. "He doesn't have the same self control. He'll be easier to find but harder to take alive. If we get him, great, but Jenkins is the one with the master plan here. He's the one we need to focus on."

Billy took a wheezing breath. "Apt enough," he said. "And while you three are off running around, what should I be doing?"

"Stay with the Jeep," Michael said. "We've got it rigged so you can fire and drive all at once."

"I do like to boast at my ability to multitask, but that may hinder my accuracy a bit," Billy said.

"Accuracy isn't the point," Michael said. "Your job is to distract. Create the biggest diversion you can."

Even exhausted, Billy managed to grin broadly. "That is perhaps one of my greatest skills," he said.

Casey snorted. "At least you'll be able to use it against someone else for once," he said. "Instead of making us endure it."

"You would miss me terribly if I weren't on the team," Billy said, coyly indignant. He took a breath and looked ready to continue his quip when a dry cough cut him off. His body bent while trying to contain it and his face twisted into a grimace. When he was done, he looked back up at them sheepishly, the sheen of sweat starting to drip on hi face.

"You sure you're okay?" Michael asked again.

Billy's smile was noticeably weak but he persisted in it nonetheless. "A little uneasiness before going into a fray is normal," he said.

"A little uneasiness does not constitute a fever," Casey reminded him dryly.

"I'm just a bit warm," Billy tried to explain.

Rick shook his head. "Is that why you were throwing up earlier?"

Michael's eyes narrowed. He'd noticed the fever a while ago and suspected the nausea ever since they'd gotten to the warehouse. But his attention to detail was slipping if he'd missed the fact that Billy was actually throwing up.

Billy's cheeks probably would have reddened were they not already flushed with obvious fever. He wasn't so stupid to try hiding it. Instead, he shrugged meagerly. "Just a touch of the flu, I'm afraid," he said. "Were there better circumstances, I promise you, I would indulge my body's seeming weakness but adrenaline is a wonderful and powerful thing."

"We can do this without you," Michael said.

Billy gave him a withering look. "We'll be lucky to pull it off with the four of us," he said. "It's not ideal, but I can get through this mission. I promise you."

Billy's eyes were bright with fever but fervent. He meant it. Billy said a lot of things he didn't mean, but he didn't make promises lightly. He wouldn't fail them.

And Michael wasn't going to fail them either. That meant getting them through this – alive. Leaving Billy behind would not only compromise their plan of attack, which was scrabbled together at best, but it would leave him vulnerable as well. They would do this – together.

He nodded. "Okay," he said. "So any last questions?"

Casey gave a surly tilt of his head, lips pursed in general disdain. Rick was blinking rapidly, shifting tensely from foot to foot. Billy had steadied himself but nodded intently.

"Too many questions, and this will get redundant," Casey said. "That will just throw off my concentration. I say we go."

Rick's head bobbed in agreement. "Jenkins has to be stopped," he said. "This is our best shot."

"Who am I to pass up a firefight with an up and coming army?" Billy joked.

That was that. After everything, three simple phrases of agreement was all Michael had to carry them through. This was his plan; theses were his mean. They were good, and they were ready. Michael could only hope it was enough.

"All right," Michael said. "Let's load up."

They moved to part when Billy held up his hand. "Just one more thing," he said, face blanching as his back curved. He turned quickly, his body convulsing as he threw up forcefully into the brush.

He took a moment, heaving dryly a few times before resting there, hands on his knees. After another minute, he pushed up, wiping a hand across his mouth. With a breath, he nodded. "Good, then," he said, smiling. "After you."

For once, Michael didn't let himself think – it wouldn't help them now anyway – and turned to load up into the Jeep.

-o-

Usually, Michael counted his tendency toward evaluation to be an asset. It often gave him insight that others missed, let him see the forest and the tree and leverage any situation to his maximum advantage.

There was a time and place for everything, though. And his so-called fevered brain was good in most situations, but when they were driving at break-neck speed toward an unpredictable and essential altercation, spending those fleeting moments second guessing himself really wasn't so ideal.

Because there was a lot to second guess. What if Jenkins had left the compound? What if they'd moved the meet up? What if the men were better organized than they had appeared? What if they had pegged them as CIA and were prepared for a fight?

These were all very real possibilities, and each one would spell disaster for them in the field. They were outmanned and outgunned; they only thing they had was the element of surprise, and they had already played that card once today.

More than that, Rick was overly invested, Casey was unduly angry, and Billy looked like he was ready to pass out. They were all on board with Michael's suicidal plan, which really may have been part of the problem. They knew better and they were trusting him, no matter how compromised they were.

And that was the point Michael couldn't get over. They _were _compromised. He didn't like to admit weakness – in general, he avoided it when he could. But as a good leader, he had to be realistic in his expectations of his men. When Casey's patience was frayed, he was too likely to put himself in harm's way. When Rick was too attached to the cause, he was prone to making mistakes of passion. When Billy was sick, he was too stubborn to acknowledge it until he his body just shut down.

If any of these problems persisted, the mission would be compromised even further.

Compromise happened sometimes, and Michael usually built in various safety nets to prepare for such situations.

Here, they had no safety net. If they screwed this up, the mission wouldn't just be a loss, but they'd probably be dead.

Michael had them rushing headlong into a fight they had no choice but to win. It was either brilliant or stupid.

Time would tell.

The uncertainty of it nagged at him, building with each passing mile. The Jeep hit the ruts in the road, bouncing them, and Michael felt his stomach churning. This was what he had to do, but that didn't mean the liked it.

Putting his men on the line was part of the job, no matter how hard he worked to avoid it. They knew the risks. Even now, he could see it in their faces. Next to him, Rick was checking his gun, looking at the ammo and setting it again. He took uneven breaths, nodding to himself every now and then, lips muttering what Michael made out to be the snippets of a prayer.

In front, Casey was calm and stoic. His eyes were turned outward, ever vigilant. His expression was neutral, almost purposefully so. There was no hint of anticipation in his eyes, just the ready calm before the storm. He sat with his favorite gun in his lap, finger resting on the trigger just so, the only indication that anything was about to happen at all.

Billy was in the driver's seat, stiff and ready. His body was hunched slightly, nerves seemingly on end as he gripped the wheel and kept his eyes forward. He looked worse than before – the sweat coalesced along his brow, trickling now and then down toward his neckline. He didn't seem to notice it, though. His driving was focus and his senses keen as he drove them onward without looking back.

They all knew the risks, but they didn't know it like Michael did. He didn't think about it often, but it was an unavoidable thought. What it would be like to lose one of them. How he'd write the report, how he'd explain it to Higgins and the review board. He imagined calling Rick's mother, talking to Casey's sister, contacting Billy's government back home.

He thought about a star on a wall, an empty desk. Losing Carson had destroyed his marriage, crippled his team, and nearly killed Michael with the guilt. He couldn't do that again.

But what if he had to? What if this was the mission?

Billy turned the Jeep hard, and Michael recognized the road. Sunday's compound was in the distance. Rick steadied in his seat with an audible breath while Casey's shoulder tensed. Billy bared down and the Jeep's engine revved as they sped forward.

Michael swallowed hard against his doubts and trepidation. Michael was a planner, but the thing about plans was that they were made to cause action. Eventually, no matter how much he worked, the planning had to start and the action had to begin.

Eventually, that time was now. No more second guessing, no more tweaking. It was time to see this plan come to fruition, no matter what.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: And action! We'll see if things start to get better for the guys…

PART SIX

-o-

The gunfire started before they were in range.

It was maybe a waste of ammunition, but Michael couldn't actually fault them for that. Considering how they'd been blindsided this morning, a little preemptive firing certainly seemed appropriate.

Appropriate, but not ideal. Billy grimaced in the front seat and Casey shook his head. "They're trying to make this interesting," Casey said with a tone of disdain.

Next to Michael, Rick swallowed convulsively. He checked his gun again.

Michael took a breath. Then another. "We're ready," he said.

The engine roared and the Jeep bounced frantically over the road. The pelting gunfire was audible now, and a few rounds pinged off the exterior.

Billy inclined his head. "So are they," he mused.

The distance closed and Michael could make out the guards at the checkpoint scrambling into some kind of formation to guard the already destroyed gate. It was haphazard but with some clear purpose; if they had much time, they probably could have mounted a defense.

They didn't have much time, though.

And neither did Michael.

A bullet ricocheted, nicking the windshield. Casey glared through the spider web of glass. "I don't like ducking," he muttered.

"I also don't fancy dying," Billy said, veering the car to the side to throw off the onslaught of gunfire.

Casey slumped lower and Michael pulled himself back as Rick ducked behind the seat. Billy's eyes were narrowed, his arms straight.

Another bullet hit the glass but Billy didn't slow. Michael found himself holding his breath, counting the beats of his heart as he watched the men at the gate find their positions and ready themselves. They were close enough to see their expressions now – scared and nervous and deadly – and they were going to hold their ground.

Billy looked through them, seemed to not see them. Instead he shook his head. "Best brace yourselves, lads," he said. "This is going to get a bit rocky."

Before Michael had the chance to blink, he saw the faces in front of him go wide, the men scattering as Billy plowed the Jeep headlong, through the ranks and the checkpoint and into the compound behind.

-o-

There was a split second of pure chaos. The Jeep rammed through the poorly reestablished barrier, sending the already broken pieces of wood and metal flying. The men scattered with a spattering of gunfire, most of which pinged harmlessly off the car's exterior.

Michael took heed of Billy's advice and braced himself. The world out his window veered sharply and the brakes squealed as Billy came to an abrupt halt.

That was the only cue Michael would get. Fortunately, it was the only one he needed.

He turned the safety off as he opened the door, rolling out low to the ground already firing. The return fire gave him his bearings and he moved instinctually toward the first building he could see.

Michael had spent some time in the military, and combat mode came to him like second nature. It wasn't something he ever expected to be good at – it was all feelings and improvisation, and there was never any time to plan anything – but since he was still alive, he figured he still had an aptitude for it.

He didn't look as he fired – saw the movement of someone firing at him and shot for the torso. If he had time, he'd aim more carefully, try for the shoulder or upper chest, something to disable but not to kill. But they were way past that point now, whether Michael liked it or not.

Gunfire came from behind and Michael spun, exchanging his empty gun for another, firing fast and hard at the windows. There was a yelp and the barrage stopped, but Michael didn't have that luxury as he turned back to the congregation of men at the center of the compound.

Their attentions were divided, which was the only reason Michael was still alive. With Casey and Rick off in disparate directions, that kind of distraction was inevitable. Billy was doing his best, sending the car speeding in a seeming haphazard manner, but Michael could see that he was pulling the bulk of the guards after him as best he could, using his vehicle as a weapon when one of them seemed unduly pinned down.

They'd been lucky so far. The men had clearly been out, trying to fortify the defenses. There was construction equipment in place, which meant they'd been in rebuilding mode when the ODS had come back. Still, a quick estimate of the men was enough to remind Michael that there were more men than this, especially since he didn't see Jenkins just yet.

The air was hot and he felt flushed as his body moved, ducking and rolling, firing and running. Bullets pelted the ground by his feet and he heard them whistle by his head but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. A moving target was the hardest to hit and staying alive was an inherent part of the plan.

As he approached the building, Michael threw himself hard against the wall. There was no way of knowing who was inside or what they were waiting for.

Michael wasn't about to wait around to find out, one way or another. He'd been lucky so far, but he needed cover to properly reload and take stock of the situation. Normally, he preferred a bit more caution, but considering that he was in the middle of a firefight, staying alive required decisive and bold action.

He slithered under the broken window, coming up hard and kicking open the door. He was met by a spray of bullets, which he dodged by pulling himself back against the outer wall. Firing off a few shots out toward the men encamped between the makeshift barricades in the middle of the compound, Michael bought himself a few seconds before turning abruptly and storming the room.

It was a terrifying moment wherein his heart seemed to stop beating in his chest. Time was suspended and he saw each man who appeared in his line of vision like marks on a CIA training exercise. He hadn't been on one of those in years, and he could still remember his first run at the Farm. His instructor had said he was capable but lacked flair.

Gritting his teeth, Michael watched the men fall, one, two three, and wondered if his teacher had ever properly realized how little flair mattered when you were still alive and other people weren't.

Then, the room was still. Outside, he could hear the echo of more gunfire. There was bursts of yelling and the sound of movement before an engine revved and everything descended into din again.

But the room was quiet. It was a small building, a single room. There was a closet at the back and a door open, showing the deserted back portion of the compound. Out a side window, Michael caught a glimpse of a side gate, swung open. There were several car loads of men, retreating into the distance.

Jenkins was passionate but apparently his men weren't as convinced on dying for the cause. That helped even the odds, but they were still tipped against them.

Suddenly, one of the men moved, groaning. Michael tensed, gun up, but when the man didn't make a move toward him, Michael inched forward.

He was on his back, bleeding from a wound in his upper chest. It was bloody but not deadly. Still, the man seemed to make no move for his weapon. Instead, he looked at Michael, panting.

Standing there, Michael wasn't sure what to do. He knew the plan, and he understood the concept of an enemy. He could be a soldier when he wanted to, and he always believed in getting his men home first, but looking down at this man, it wasn't as easy to separate his plans from the reality.

He was young. His dark skin was smooth, the whites of his bright. For a moment, he seemed too pained to speak and then, he laughed. "I would be ashamed to die by an American," he said, English thick and stunted.

Michael frowned.

The man's smile widened as he convulsed just so. "But the fact that you will not be long behind me is consolation enough."

Michael's gut twisted. People liked to talk, and while some people were simpering in suffering, others were only more defiant. Some lied; others told the truth for the first time ever.

Michael couldn't be sure what was happening here, but somehow he knew.

Something was wrong. Something was off. Something…

Fresh panic in his stomach, he turned, moving back toward the door where the sound of gunfire had receded for a moment. It was a trap. Not a well thought out one, but enough of one. If they were attacked again, Jenkins had told them to keep the assailants occupied while a proper counterstrike could be mounted. It was the smart thing to do.

Hell, it was what Michael would do.

He opened the door, ready to warn the others when an explosion rocked the area. Michael didn't have time to brace himself as he was thrown hard off his feet, landing on the ground while everything went white.

-o-

An explosion.

Usually, Michael tended to think of explosion as a once in a mission occurrence, but if Jenkins was the kind of guy who liked things that went boom, then Michael should have predicted this. A good leader relies on his assets. The explosion at Michael's hotel room had been well done – careful and to the point and controlled and still dangerous – so of course a repeat performance should have been expected.

The oversight was hard to swallow but he really had other things to worry about. Like opening his eyes and getting to his feet and figuring out what to do next.

With that, Michael blinked. The ceiling above him had drop down panels that he'd never noticed before. The irregular sized holes swam in no discernible pattern.

At least this meant that the building was still standing. Which meant he'd either been far enough from the blast to deflect the majority of the impact or the bomb itself had not been strong enough to incur widespread destruction.

This was good. It meant he was alive and it meant his team could still be alive. Being alive was the ultimate goal, though Michael had to acknowledge, if only to himself, that if that was the bar for success right now then he was setting it pretty low. More than that, being alive now was no guarantee for five minutes for now. Or five seconds from now.

Mostly, Michael needed to get up.

He was moving without thinking and the pain that jackknifed through him was harsh and sudden. Nausea swelled in his stomach and his vision dimmed around the edges, but he refused to black out.

The loss of equilibrium passed and the pain abated to tolerable levels. Still, he moved gingerly to his feet, too aware of the fresh bruises forming on his already battered body. These sorts of risks came with the job, but he was getting a bit old for this.

Not that that mattered at the moment. He'd mastered opening his eyes and he was standing on two feet, which just left figuring out his next move.

With a quick glance, he doubled checked the room. The man from earlier was still now – unconscious or dead, Michael wasn't sure and he wasn't checking. Next, Michael checked his guns. He took a moment to reload the one before ensuring the other was ready.

From outside, the eerie stillness had vanished and a fresh wave of gunfire erupted, bringing Michael's attention back to the primary goal. He was safe for now, but his team may not have fared so well. The gunfire suggested that there was someone left to provide resistance but that was no guarantee of anything.

The doorway was destroyed so Michael pressed himself against the wall and peeked out to get a fresh look at the action.

The area was disordered now, with debris spread around the open center of the compound. There was a smoking hull of a truck – obviously what Jenkins had used to set off the explosion. There were a few bodies littered around the epicenter, but the uniforms suggested that they'd been caught in so-called friendly fire. Jenkins had that as a tactical advantage. To him, this was war, so some losses would be acceptable. For Michael, this was a mission and he would not leave a member of his team behind.

That was when he saw Billy – or, rather, heard him. The Jeep came flying by, careening in an almost reckless pattern, sideswiping a building and sending an entrenched contingent of Jenkins' men scrambling. The Jeep was bullet-riddled by this point, but it was still running, which Michael could attribute to Billy's driving prowess.

That was one of his team.

He spotted Casey next. While Jenkins' factions had divided into two main sections – clearly an attempt to move the ODS to the center and surround them until death or surrender were the only inevitable options. But Billy's constant movement had made that task harder than they probably intended and while they had two solid flanks, Casey was holed up behind a crumbling wall of Jenkins' meeting room this morning. The position was good and with steady fire, he was clearly holding his ground.

Until he ran out of ammunition, anyway.

That just left Rick. Following the firefight, Michael easily saw that Jenkins' ground troops had two definitive targets. One faction fired at Casey; the other focused their attentions on the hull of a shipping truck.

It only took another moment to discern the movement from inside the open back. Rick was hard to see, but the quick, precise movements gave the kid away. He'd clearly been moving to the farthest building on the compound, the one most easily defended and most heavily fortified. He'd gotten close, but he was there yet and without substantial backup, he'd never make it out of there alive.

The situation wasn't ideal – Michael knew that – but considering that they were four men against a small army it really was pretty impressive. It'd be a whole lot more impressive if they made it out on the other side.

While one contingent of men was close to the checkpoint, the other had Casey and Rick flanked from the far building. If Casey and Rick were still in the fray, that meant that Jenkins was still out there, most likely in the last building. They couldn't leave yet – not without this last piece of the puzzle – so Michael had only one viable option.

Rejoin the battle, tip the balance, and hope like hell that the ODS luck held out.

Without contemplating the details, Michael ducked out the door, dashing through the melee with as much stealth as he was capable of. Fortunately, with all the activity, he was unnoticed. That was only a temporary reprieve, though, and Michael knew it. He also knew it wouldn't be long until Jenkins properly ascertained that four against his army were good odds and made a blind charge. Jenkins would lose a few men, but the end result would be entirely successful from his point of view.

He made it half the distance before one of the soldiers caught sight of him. He fired a few shots preemptively, picking up his pace as he sprinted for all he was worth toward Casey's location. Off in the distance, Billy was still maneuvering, breaking through one of the gaps in the back fence and drawing a small portion of the men along in pursuit.

Bullets kicked up dust around his feet and Michael's chest felt tight. It was a tossup – run and fire or just _run _– so he was more than somewhat glad when Casey turned his attention toward him and laid down an effective barrage of cover fire.

Breathless, he collapsed behind the wall. Casey fired a few more shots before looking down at him ruefully. "I'm glad you're not dead," the older operative said.

Michael nodded. "Me, too," he said.

Casey pulled up, getting off a few more shots. "No thanks to this plan, though," he said, shaking his head with something akin to disgust.

"You don't like my plan?" Michael asked with feigned hurt.

Casey snorted. "I tend not to like suicide."

Michael had to smirk, pushing himself up and firing off a few shots of his own. He hunkered back down and shrugged with as much charm as he could muster. "You always say that I never challenge you enough."

Casey rolled his eyes. "I might believe that you created this plan as a personal challenge for me if you hadn't let Rick and Billy throw their own lives around so recklessly," he said. "I think we're rubbing off on the kid. He's acting like this is some kind of personal vendetta for him."

Michael popped his head up, shooting in the direction of the entrenched line while trying to get a better look toward Rick. He only had a second to look, but Martinez was still holed up and holding his own.

He pulled back down, his smirk now twisted to a grimace. "He believes in the cause too much," Michael said. "I need to start planning better for his noble streak."

Casey lifted his gun, firing a few careful bullets before coming back down to reload. "Nobility is another word for righteous stupidity," he said.

"Which is all another way of saying some people just like the challenge," Michael said.

Casey inclined his head, finishing his loading. "Point," he said, a small smile twitching his lips. "So what's the plan now?"

Michael peaked over, placing a few careful shots before coming back down to reload his own gun. "I think it's safe to assume Jenkins is in the main building at the far end," Michael said.

"We cleared the other buildings, so I'd say that's a safe bet," Casey agreed, gunfire splintering the cement just over their heads.

Michael didn't let himself wince. "He's still our priority."

Casey tilted his head again. "Interesting."

"Without him, this entire thing is a bust," Michael said.

"I'm not arguing the objective," Casey countered. "But I am wondering how you planned to take into account the small army that vastly outnumbers us?"

Michael's jaw worked. He peered over again, offering up a small volley to protect himself. Back down, he took a breath. Then he took another.

Finally, he nodded. "We need to get to Rick."

Casey stared at him. "That's your plan?"

Michael glared. "That's the first step of the plan."

"You mean the part where we manage to overcome the small army that vastly outnumbers us?" Casey asked.

Michael shrugged. "If we can't get to Rick, then the small army that vastly outnumbers us is really kind of a moot point."

Casey frowned. "Fine," he said, sulking just a bit. "We go in intervals. I run, you cover. When I stop, we trade until we get there. Good?"

Michael nodded. "Good."

Casey took a breath, nodding back. He looked out toward the fight. "Good," he muttered one last time. Then, without another moment's hesitation, he was on his feet and moving, and Michael could only hope that good would be good enough.

-o-

It was like a dance, improvised but with expert steps. Casey darted fast and low, and Michael aimed his cover fire at equal intervals, aiming not necessarily for a kill but for the maximum distribution.

When Casey hit the ground behind a barricade he took a moment, not glancing back as he started his line of fire.

Michael didn't hesitate, took the leap into no man's land with every ounce of energy he had left.

They went like this, running and firing, in a nuanced back and forth. So it was just like a dance, if dances involved gunfire and likely death for a misstep.

Halfway there, Michael's heart was throbbing in his ears, blood rushing almost painfully in his head. His chest was tight, his finger sore from gripping the gun so tight.

But it was working.

At the latest stop point they'd improvised, Michael was close enough to see Rick now. His face was lined with stress, smudged with dirt, but he was still upright and firing in the opposite direction to help keep the assailants at bay.

Casey was running out in front, just like before, but this time the gunfire petered out and something lobbed into the picture.

Michael blinked, breath caught in his throat. He saw the object fall harmlessly to the ground, sitting innocently no more than three feet behind Casey.

A grenade.

It was a split second choice, but still, to Michael it wasn't really a choice at all. Casey was moving quickly, but not quickly enough. If the goal was to get his men out alive, then Michael had to act.

On his feet, Michael didn't bother firing. Instead, he charged.

Somewhere, Rick yelled. A bracket of gunfire exploded in the distance and Michael's world narrowed to a pinpoint. All he could see was the gleaming black shape on the ground.

There was no way to disarm it, but he could minimize the blast.

He had to, for Casey. For his team. For the mission.

Then, there was a flash.

Next, there was a blur of movement.

Michael hit the ground hard on his backside, head spinning as he tried to breathe. His ears rang painfully and his breath was tight in his throat.

With a gasp he sat upright, blinking rapidly.

Ahead of him there was a smoking car, flames licking toward the Nigerian sky.

Michael blinked again, head jerking to the side. Beyond the haze of smoke he could see Casey and Rick, stashed together in the truck. They were okay.

Michael looked again at the car when his hearing came back. Tires squealed and an engine revved hard. Billy.

Then, he understood. Billy had had the same idea. Only he'd been smart enough to use one of the trucks pursuing him to take out the grenade for him.

It was smart. Really damn smart.

New gunfire started and Michael remembered that while he'd survived the grenade, he still needed to make it to cover. Scrambling, he got to his feet. He wavered shakily, stumbling as he found his footing, half hobbling the final distance to Rick's cover.

Out of breath, he collapsed against the interior of the wall, pressing himself down and readily accepting the cover fire that Casey finished laying.

Looking up, he found Rick staring down at him. "I think I've changed my mind," he said. "This wasn't such a good shot after all."

Even with the tension, Michael barked with laughter. "Too late for that, I think."

Casey pulled back from laying his cover fire. Outside, bullets pinged on the metal exterior. "Anyway, things are finally getting interesting," he said. "I'm not sitting with some entitled tourist who thinks that the entire world should speak English. Plus, I get to fire a gun. I'm having the time of my life."

"You don't count," Rick said.

Casey glowered.

Michael shrugged, giving Casey an apologetic look. "He has a point."

"Fine," Casey said. "Now why don't we make a point of finishing this mission?"

Casey was right on that. Cautiously, Michael leaned out, peaking around the backside of the truck. The distance to the final building was less than what they'd just covered but the armaments were much more impressive. The line of men was organized and methodical. Jenkins was visible just behind the lines in full gear, nodding instructions even as his eyes seemed to narrow in on Michael's.

It wasn't just a defensive measure; it was defiance. He was taunting Michael. Jenkins knew that with a strong offensive he could overtake the ODS and end this altogether. He wanted to give Michael the pretense of a chance. It wasn't simple overconfidence; it was cold, hard logic. Jenkins had planned for this and was waiting for it to play out.

Reining himself back, Michael's humor faded bitterly. Working his jaw, he nodded curtly. "Okay," he said and took a cleansing breath. He looked at Casey and Rick, no further hesitations indulged. "How fast can you run the 100 meters?"

-o-

The thing with plans was that they usually sounded better in theory.

In theory, making a decisive headlong run that relied heavily on the element of surprise and blind determination to overthrow the enemy's hesitancy and inexperience sounded pretty good.

In actuality, running straight on into oncoming fire was really just stupid.

Billy had done an effective job of clearing their path, clearing out some of the opposition and drawing a decent amount of fire. But they were still clearly outnumbered, and there was only so far they could go before being forced to find a temporary reprieve.

Casey, who had taken an early lead, ducked out first, taking cover behind the bulk of an abandoned car. He paused to reload before stealing himself and laying down a heavy line of cover fire.

Michael capitalized on that. He was next in the line, moving with a speed and agility that he had spent years perfecting. Casey was the human weapon, but Michael knew that his daily jogs weren't just a superfluous part of his schedule. They were critical to his survival.

He fired carefully as he ran, keeping his gun up but sparing his shots to keep points in the defensive line. He bobbed, weaving among the bullets, listening for the pattern of gunfire and finding its ebb and flow. Jenkins had trained his men to alternate as a means of maintaining a steady flow, but that meant that there were gaps in the coverage that were easy to exploit once Michael found the rhythm.

Easy was probably the wrong word. Possible was a better word, but even a moving target could be hit if it got close enough. Something hot cut through his arm and a moment of panic flared in his gut. Sensing his luck about to give out entirely, he dove for the first cover he could find, pressing his face into the dirt as he rolled out of the line of fire and behind what he could only hope was an empty barrel.

Bullets dinged in front of him, and since he hadn't exploded yet again he figured that was progress. Or at least a step in the right direction. Or maybe just not a step backwards. Michael couldn't afford to be picky at this point.

Besides, there wasn't time to dwell on it. He was down, which meant that someone else was up. He didn't have to look to guess it was Rick; the direction of the gunfire was a giveaway.

There was a nearby sound of retaliatory fire, and Michael figured Casey had the right idea. Michael reloaded without thinking, doing a quick mental count of his dwindling ammunition. When Casey's round was finished Michael didn't hesitate, lifting himself up and laying down his own line of fire.

He was so focused on firing that he didn't have much time to check Rick's progress until the kid was running past him.

In fact, Martinez was running past him and up to Casey. With two lines of cover fire, this was probably more possible than Michael had originally considered. This would set them up in perfect position to send Casey forward to breach the line and then they'd all follow. They could overpower Jenkins and get the hell out.

It was optimistic, maybe, but possible.

In theory.

In reality, Rick didn't stop. Martinez didn't even slow down. He passed Casey and just kept running. How Jenkins' men missed Rick, Michael wasn't sure. Maybe they were too surprised by his audacity to actually aim. Maybe the scopes on their rifles weren't so good at close range. Maybe Casey's cover fire was more precise than he'd counted on.

Maybe they weren't firing at him at all.

Maybe they wanted him to breach the line.

Maybe it was a setup.

Michael's heart clenched and his stomach went cold. He sprang up, gun in hand, but he didn't fire.

Couldn't fire.

Because Rick was there, hands up with a circle of at least twenty men, all with their guns trained on him.

In theory, this was bad.

In reality, it was worse.

And Michael wasn't sure what to do.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: This is a chapter I enjoyed writing. So you can probably guess a little bit what's coming.

PART SEVEN

-o-

Michael's plan was screwed.

Not just a little messed up, but totally obliterated. Every step he'd carefully plotted and haphazardly thrown together was for naught, because Jenkins had had all the cards. He'd had the one up the entire way and the only reason any of them were actually alive right now were because Jenkins wanted it that way.

It was a cocky sort of thing, but it was also practical. Jenkins didn't know who they were. After the way Billy and Casey busted in earlier that day he might have had suspicions, but a good leader didn't just neutralize threats; he tried to understand them as well. The best way to preempt future problems was to understand past compromises, and so capturing the ODS alive was probably part of that plan.

And it was a damn good plan. The kind of plan Michael would make. Had made. For all the good it had done him.

That was why, for a moment, all he could do was stare. Casey was still crouched low behind his cover, gun in hand. He was sweating in earnest with the heat of battle, eyes burning as he held himself perfectly immobile out of sight and well out of the line of fire. He was assessing the situation, just as much as Michael was, but he was also waiting for Michael to take the lead.

He wasn't the only one. Rick's eyes were fixed toward him, the dark brown making the whites stand out starkly, even from a distance. There was a flicker of fear there, but it was overwhelmed by the frustration, the apology. He was trying to say sorry, trying to tell Michael this wasn't his fault, absolving him if—

Michael would not tolerate the if. There was no_ if _in his plans.

From the rank of soldiers, Jenkins stepped forward. He was armed, wearing a combat helmet, but he was decidedly vulnerable. A clean shot to the torso would take him down. But he wasn't afraid because they all knew any shot to kill Jenkins would lead to a barrage of bullets at Rick. A barrage he wouldn't survive.

It'd be a knight for a king in a game of chess, a worthwhile move, but not one Michael was willing to make. Victory had conditions for him. And bringing his men home alive was not negotiable, even if some people would tell him it should be.

"This has been an interesting game," he said. "Though I admit, despite being within reach of total victory, I would rather know who I am fighting in order to properly document this success."

The words were calm and confident. Michael's stomach churned and he locked his jaw, refusing to move. Casey looked back toward him, but Michael couldn't bring himself to look back.

Jenkins shrugged easily. "I understand this must be difficult," he said. "Facing defeat in the battlefield is rarely something that is easily swallowed. I should thank you, though, for showing me that my men are more than capable for a greater challenge."

Michael watched, noting Jenkins' demeanor. He was erect and proper, eyes not searching. It was a pose of general ease, and it wasn't forced. He believed what he said. Not that he didn't have reason to be confident, but he was too sure of controlling the variables.

It was a mistake to believe yourself beyond screwing up.

Michael knew that, was learning it the hard way.

"I imagine you are much more than the competition," Jenkins continued, musing now. "Though I admit, I can't figure out who sent you. Are you trained by the government? Or maybe a private backer?"

Jenkins wanted information. This was Michael's only leverage. However, playing with that leverage would likely deem Rick unnecessary. The longer he was silent, the longer Rick had to stay alive. Until Jenkins finally gave up and executed Rick in front of him. It was a matter of timing.

Not that Michael knew what he was going to do. Not that there was anything he could do.

Of course, he could stand up, offer himself in exchange, but it wouldn't work. The more face time he gave Jenkins, the more likely it was for the man to discern who he was and who he worked for. The longer the mystery was maintained, the better off Michael's position was and the more likely it was that Michael would regain control of the situation to free Rick and finish the operation.

He could kill Jenkins, charge and hope for the best. Casey would join him, and there was a chance, however small, that the melee would be enough to give Rick an opening and they would be able to get out of there alive.

It was a long shot, and Michael knew it. Then again, it was about his only shot.

"Given your escape this morning, I counted on this being a team that values its members," Jenkins said. He glanced casually toward Rick. "If I'm wrong—"

The men around Rick moved forward and there was the sound of a gun cocking. Rick tensed but didn't quite flinch. In front of Michael, Casey looked back anxiously.

Michael took a breath. Then another. He needed to stay focused. Stay calm and collected. The mission depended on it. Rick's life depended on it.

Michael looked to Casey, holding his gaze for a long moment so Casey understood. Then he looked back toward Rick and then to Jenkins. He breathed again, fingers tightening on his gun. No more thinking, no more hesitating. He let the tension build in his body, springing to his feet when everything shifted again.

His heart raced but he couldn't hear it over the sound of an oncoming vehicle. A smattering of gunfire started up again, but it didn't matter. Michael turned in time to see the Jeep careening through, breaking the line of soldiers before crashing heavily into the wall of the building. There was a brief second when the sound of impact was all there was, heavy and resounding as the wall crumbling.

Then, just like that, there was a flash of light bright enough to blind Michael and the boom was loud enough to deafen him as the force of the explosion threw him to the ground yet again.

-o-

People thought that spy work was exciting, with mysteries and intrigue, aliases and explosions. Michael was more than content to let them have their fantasies while he rolled his eyes and went about his mundane life at the CIA. But really, intrigue was predictable and the aliases got monotonous, so no, it wasn't usually like that.

Except for when it was_ exactly _like that.

Most missions had their moments. This one seemed intent on having nonstop moments. After all, this was, what, the fourth explosion?

How could one mission have that many explosions?

And more appropriately, how the hell had Michael_ survived _all four explosions?

There was no accounting for luck in this kind of measurement, and mostly, there was no time to ponder it because the fact was that Michael _was _alive, which meant that this mission wasn't over yet, which meant he had work to do.

Blinking, Michael realized he was staring at the sky, ears ringing.

Work to do. There was work.

If he could just remember what that so-called work was. It was probably something of national importance with serious international implications. There was something illegal, something dangerous, something that surely warranted _four_explosions.

He blinked and his mind jolted. If he was here, where was his team?

Then he remembered: Billy in the Jeep, Casey taking cover, Rick with a gun to his head.

Startled, he pushed himself up, head spinning even as he tried to make out what had happened. There was yelling and people were scattered. The fortified building was in flames now, with a few bodies littering the ground. Soldiers struggled to get away, and that was when Michael saw Rick.

His summer suit was easy to discern from the uniforms, and the blood soaking the tan exterior was unnaturally bright in the deepening afternoon. He was on the ground, pushing unsteadily to all fours.

He was alive.

Michael grinned, almost drunk with relief. Carefully, he tried to get to his feet, feeling his head reel even as he groped for his gun.

The relief was short lived, however, because before Rick could get to his feet Jenkins came up hard behind him. The soldier was dirtier than before with a contusion on his cheek. But his movements were smooth and his eyes clear as he hauled Rick to his feet and dragged him back.

Rick yelped and struggled, but disoriented as he clearly was, it did no good.

It wasn't fair. Jenkins should have taken the brunt of that blast. But good luck was a tricky thing, and Michael knew that it ran in his favor as often as it ran against him.

Still, their odds had greatly improved, so Michael abandoned the idea of holding his ground and got to his feet, trying to stumble into a run.

He only made it a few feet when he went down hard. His legs refused to work and he tasted dirt as his breath left him a huff. But even as he fell, he heard the gunshot and felt the air move above his head where he'd just been standing.

It would have been a fatal shot.

He should be dead.

Instead, his nose was bloody from his impact with the ground and he had dirt in his mouth.

Groaning, he rolled. Blinking, he saw Casey above him. "I'm going to blame your lack of foresight on the fact that you've endured more explosions than any of us in the last few days," the older operative said dryly.

Michael frowned, sitting up, slower this time. He looked back and Jenkins was gone now, even as his men tried to scramble back up into some kind of defensive position.

"Not that I can't appreciate your intentions," Casey said, squinting toward the flaming building. "But I think we've all had a bit too much self sacrifice for this mission."

Michael frowned and worked to get a better grip on his bearings. He was missing something, something important, something- "You don't think Billy was_ inside _the Jeep, do you?" he asked.

Casey's face was pale and pinched; there was a new smudge of dirt and blood on his temple. "If he thought it was his only chance—" He didn't finish the thought.

Michael tried to breathe. Tried to think. Because Rick was gone, inside whatever was left in the compound and left entirely to Jenkins' whims. It was something of an advantage that Jenkins didn't actually have whims; he had plans. Killing Rick still wouldn't be part of the plan, not if getting rid of them all was the ultimate goal. Rick was his bargaining chip, and now more than ever.

And Billy was gone, too, though Michael couldn't be sure where. Because if he was inside the Jeep, if he'd crashed it into the building without jumping out first, then he was dead. He would have to be dead. The Jeep's frame was hardly visible, totally engulfed in flame. The men nearest the point of impact hadn't moved.

Even if Billy hadn't been in the Jeep, he was likely still injured. There would be no way to plan that kind attack with much forethought, so even if Billy jumped out, he was probably still close to the point of impact, which meant that injury was likely. How serious, Michael couldn't be sure, especially given Billy's condition prior to the mission's start.

This meant…

This meant that things were bad.

This meant that Michael had to act.

This meant that Michael had to go forward and this time, he couldn't let Casey stop him.

On his feet, he ignored the dizziness and checked his gun. "I'm going after them."

Casey stood next to him. "I wouldn't respect you if you didn't," he said. "But this time, let's try to do it together so neither of us end up dead."

Michael had to smile, brief and fleeting thought it was. But before they could move, new clatter came to their right.

Ducking instinctively, Michael tried to figure out what was going on. The firefight was frenetic, punctuated by loud yells and the movement of men as they formed what looked to be defensive ranks.

Next to him, Casey was frowning. "That's unexpected."

Michael's brain worked. He shook his head, the realization settling. "No," he said. "That's Billy."

-o-

For most people, the sound of gunfire and general mayhem wouldn't be relief. For Michael, though, it was just enough hope to keep him going. Because the idea of Billy, sick and alone in the midst of a firefight, wasn't exactly reassuring, but it was a vast improvement over the idea of Billy charred and dead inside a burned out Jeep.

Billy was alive, if not well, though given the way the men were falling back on his position, he might not stay that way for long.

Next to him, Casey cursed. "He's pretty pinned down," he said, squinting out over the ground.

Michael followed his line of vision and finally saw the point of focus through the throng of men. The attention was directed toward one of the smaller buildings, which had the windows broken out. Bullets pinged the exterior in a steady stream, though occasionally there was a flash of a gun poking out the window, though the shots seemed to be more for effect than anything else.

Michael's eyes trailed back, watching the men setting up their positions. They had been taking a defensive tact this entire time; Michael knew that wouldn't last. The Jeep's collision with the last structure had been an unexpected wrench in their plans. It confused them, but hadn't seriously impeded them, and Michael could only wager that now it wasn't time for them to play around, but to get serious. They had Rick in custody; they would take Billy, too, one way or another.

And if Michael knew the Scot, the_ another _would probably involve bloodshed.

"They're circling him," Casey said, sounding frustrated.

Michael nodded, watching as the men tried to fan out. Billy's intermittent gunshots were deterring them, but just barely. "They'll overtake him soon," he agreed.

The tension began to build, the way it always did when one of his men was in immediate danger. Glancing back, he saw the men in front of the building reorganizing. Jenkins was gone now, and so was Rick. Martinez would still be alive, for now.

He looked back toward Billy's location and sighed. He couldn't go after them both. He had to prioritize.

As a bargaining chip, Rick's life had worth. As a factor at large, Billy was currently an unnecessary risk. Rick was injured, but still in stable condition from what little Michael had gleaned. Billy's condition was unknown but likely to be compromised, possibly badly. He was at least suffering from weakness and nausea, and there was no way of knowing if he'd endured any other injuries in the fight up to this point.

The conclusion was simple. At least, in the abstract.

"We've got to get to Billy," Michael said definitively.

Casey lifted his brows. "And Martinez?"

Michael didn't let himself glance back. "Will stay alive longer than Billy will, at this rate."

"We could separate," Casey offered.

"The divide and conquer technique hasn't worked so well for us," Michael said. "The odds are against us enough as it is; we need to stick together."

This was the only logical course of action, and Michael said it without hesitation. If he gave into his doubts now, this whole thing would end up badly.

Or, at the very least, worse than it already was.

Casey inclined his head, expression somewhat grim. "Probably for the best," he said. "I've faced worse odds, but with the concussive blasts, I'm functioning just slightly less than 100 percent."

Michael looked at him, allowing himself a moment of bemusement. "Is that an admission of weakness?"

"It's an admission of practicality," he said, glaring at Michael somewhat even as he checked his remaining ammo. "My 95 percent still beats the hell out of anyone else's 100."

Michael grinned. "I'm not doubting it," he said, peering to glance over their task again. "Should we leapfrog it again?"

Casey sighed. "Doesn't seem to be a lot of other options."

"You do say that you want more challenges," Michael cajoled.

Casey leveled him with a deadpan look. "Somehow I'm not sure facing an entire army is what I meant," he said. Then he paused, shrugging. "But I suppose I can't fault you for your intention."

Michael chuckled even as the hails of gunfire increased and Casey ducked out into the fray. The laughs tapered off, choking in his tightening throat as he looked up over their cover and hoped like hell he wouldn't regret this later.

-o-

The necessary route was circuitous but clear enough. Casey led first, negotiating his way out of the line of fire, finding the best spot to hole up while Michael made his follow up dash. They took turns this way, circumventing the distance and effectively driving a wedge between the contingents of Jenkins' men. The last bit was the hardest, and Michael found himself leading the way through no man's land, running with all the reserve he had left before making a hard dive into the open doorway.

Inside, he was greeted by the sound of a gun being cocked.

Michael looked up. He saw the gun first, a well worn pistol, shaking just slightly but aimed perfectly at his head.

Then, he saw Billy.

The Scot was pressed against the wall next to the window, leaned against it so he could still see outside. Despite this, he looked ready to fall over, chest heaving and entire body trembling. His face was downright ashen now, with deep circles under his eyes and a bright flush in his cheeks. Sweat drenched his face, soaking his shirt.

He was filthy, dirt and dust smeared all over the place, and the knees of his pants were ripped and stained with blood, probably from his dive out of the Jeep before sending it off to crash. His stance was shaky with legs locked defiantly, and his blue eyes seemed to blaze unusually bright as he clearly put all his energy into holding his aim.

Michael didn't move, and for a long moment neither did Billy. Finally, recognition dawned in the Scot's eyes and a tremulous smile crossed his lips. "Fancy meeting you here," he quipped, his gun finally lowering.

Michael eased himself up, offering a small smile in return. "I thought I told you to stay in the Jeep."

Billy shrugged sheepishly. "That went up in flames," he replied. "Much like the rest of the mission."

"It's hard to plan when you won't follow orders," Michael chided.

Billy huffed a laugh. "I would think that would be the one constant you could plan on," he said. Then he seemed to droop, eyes getting hazy as he visibly labored for air.

Michael was going to say _You'd find a way to screw that up, too _but there didn't seem to be any point. Not when Billy's legs were giving out and his eyes were rolling up into his head, and it was all Michael could do to close the final distance before the Scot collapsed bonelessly to the ground.

-o-

Billy went down hard, but Michael got there in time to prevent the Scot's impact with the floor. His body was heavy and unwieldy, and Michael had to shift awkwardly as he tried to keep his footing and lower the taller man to the floor. Fresh gunfire ricocheted off the outer walls, and Michael minded the window while he gave Billy a fresh once over.

Billy's sweat-flushed face was lax now, turned to the side. His breathing was fast and with the close contact, Michael could feel the heat radiating off him. To the side of the window, Michael made out a small puddle of bile.

Anxious, Michael found the pulse point on Billy's neck, pressing two fingers into the throbbing beat. It was fast – too fast.

This was more than the flu. Michael wasn't sure what it was just yet, but he was beginning to think this was a bigger deal than he had counted on.

Just then, the flurry of gunfire increased outside. Flinching, Michael readied his gun, lifting it in time to fix on the figure that tumbled through the doorway.

His first instinct was to fire.

His second was to sigh. "Casey," he said, letting his gun down again. "I didn't even get to lay down any cover fire."

Casey dusted off his shirt. "You assume I need it," he said. Keeping low, he moved closer. His cool confidence flickered, and Michael saw a hint of uncertainty, a touch of fear. "Billy?"

Michael glanced down. "Collapsed just as I got here," he reported. "The fever's worse."

Casey came closer, kneeling down on the Scot's other side. He pressed a hand to Billy's head, frowning. "This is more than the flu," he said.

Michael sighed, sitting back on his haunches. "I know," he said. "Fever, nausea, dry cough. Clearly weak and probably anemic."

"You're thinking malaria," Casey concluded.

Michael's eyes lingered on Billy's slack features. "We're in the right territory."

"We've all been inoculated," Casey countered.

Michael snorted, giving Casey a reproachful look. "Tell that to Billy."

Casey lifted his brow. "Touché," he said.

"Whatever it is, I don't think Billy's getting out of here on his own," Michael said, glancing back toward the window. There was still intermittent gunfire outside, but the absence of activity did not necessarily bode in their favor.

Because silence meant that the men outside were regrouping. Regrouping meant that they were probably getting ready to converge on their position. If that happened, Michael would have very few means to properly defend their location. They'd be overrun and they'd all be captured with no hope of rescue.

Which meant they had to go. Quickly.

This conclusion was easy enough to come by, but its implications were less certain and far harder to swallow. Because leaving was the ideal, but Michael could see no way for them to go together. Billy was in no condition to fight; getting him out of here in one piece was going to be a full job. Given the Scot's height, the person carrying Billy would probably be unable to even fire in defense during the flight.

Which meant that getting Billy out was, in fact, a two person job. It was perhaps fortunate then that they had two people for the job. But if two people were required to get Billy out, then there was no one left to get Rick.

Getting Rick would be the more difficult task. It could be attempted with one, but much better executed with two. In truth, Michael had been counting on all three of them when he'd come up with his makeshift plan of escape. Without that, a rescue was suicide.

They could take Billy with them, but that would only increase the likelihood of someone catching a stray bullet. If they left Billy behind, he'd be captured and another rescue operation would be required.

In short, this was a problem without a satisfactory solution. Michael was going to leave one of his men behind or risk sacrificing all of them.

Casey was watching him, a knowing look in his eyes. "You can't really be thinking of leaving him behind," he said.

Michael's jaw worked and he met Casey's gaze. "I'm open to hear alternatives."

"We split up," Casey said. "I can get Martinez out by myself."

"Carrying Billy is going to be a full time job," Michael said.

"You could hole up here with him," Casey said. "I'll meet you back."

Michael wanted to consider that, but glancing outside, he saw the men move. He shook his head. "We're out of time," he said.

"And if we leave now, we're out a man," Casey shot back.

Michael looked down at Billy, still limp on the floor. If this was malaria, it was going to go from bad to worse – and quickly. He shook his head. "We leave, secure Billy and then come back again."

Casey's look of disbelief was muted only by his deadpanned nature. "Since our first surprise attack went so well."

"It's the only plan that gives us any chance at all," Michael snapped.

"Unless they kill Rick," Casey pointed out.

"They won't," Michael said. "They need him."

Cased was unconvinced. "Until they pack up and go to ground."

"Which they won't do until after their shipment," Michael said. He took a breath, the plan solidifying in his mind. "So we get Billy out, return to our remote location and then come back tonight. In the dark, we should have some stealth on our side. We can get in, get Rick out, and then finish this mission. Even without Jenkins, we'll have the intel we've gathered so far."

Casey regarded him skeptically. Beneath them, Billy moaned a little, body twitching a he labored for air. "What if the kid decides to play the martyr?"

Michael grimaced but tried not to let it show. It was a possibility, and not even one that seemed overly impossible. Rick was new and he was naïve. He still believed in the grander virtues of the spy game, for better and for worse. But in his short time with the ODS, Michael had to hope the kid had learned one lesson better than the rest. "Rick knows we won't leave him behind," he said.

It was clear by the look on his face that Casey wanted to disagree. Some might attribute it to a contrary nature, but Michael knew better. Casey was strong and stoic, he believed grief was a pointless emotion, but the thought of losing one of his teammates – it never failed to make the crusty operative as skittish as a newbie.

But Casey, even with a fear he might call irrational, was practical when he had to be. And he knew Michael was right, even if he didn't necessarily like it.

The older man gathered a breath, glanced briefly at Billy and then nodded curtly. "Would you prefer to rely on my impeccable aim or upper body strength?"

Michael had to smile; Casey's persistence was a reassurance he needed. "I can carry Billy if you can clear the path."

Casey checked his gun, visibly counting the remaining rounds. "Just don't slow down," he warned. He peeked up over the edge of the window. "I assume you have a plan for a vehicle since Billy saw fit to destroy ours?"

Michael squinted out. "Sure," he said. "Run like hell and take the first vehicle you see."

Casey grinned, a little grim. "Simple," he said, readying himself. "I like it."

Michael took a steadying breath, reaching down and grasping Billy's limp wrist. He hoisted the taller man up, catching the flopping body on his shoulders as he prepared to heave them both upward. "Well, I'm saving judgment," he admitted, shifting Billy as best he could until the Scot was splayed evenly over his shoulders.

Casey tilted his head. "Right now I think we could use some of Billy's blind optimism," he said.

Michael snorted, feeling Billy's hot cheek pressed against his shoulder. "I'll be sure to tell him that."

"You'll do no such thing," Casey said. "Of course, given how bad our odds are here, I'm not sure it matters."

"And there's the Casey I know," Michael said, a tight grin on his lips.

Casey shrugged. "You ready?"

Michael tightened his grip on Billy's wrist, wrapping his other hand on the man's leg to steady them both. He nodded. "Let's go."

Casey didn't need to be told again, and Michael didn't hold back as they ducked outside into the line of fire.

-o-

For once, Michael didn't slow down to think. He didn't even analyze. He didn't have the energy. It was all he could do to keep Billy steady on his shoulders, to keep himself upright and running.

Casey plowed ahead with a skill and determination that had earned him his reputation. Michael understood the probabilities, the plain fact that they should be easily overtaken at any given moment. But Casey didn't believe in failure any more than Michael did, so when they got to the first vehicle, Michael didn't even feel surprised.

He didn't feel relieved either. The entire thing was a plaintive revelation, a necessary step if the rest of the plan was going to succeed.

It was a mere matter of practicality. They had to find a vehicle because they needed a vehicle to get out of there. If it didn't happen, then the plan was irrelevant because they were dead.

So Michael didn't stop, didn't even think to be grateful. Instead, he let Casey yank the driver out, knocking him out as Michael ducked around the backside, feeling Billy's hand flop loosely against his back. The Scot's sweat-soaked hair was wet on Michael's shoulder, his body heavy with unconsciousness. It had been a chore to avoid the bullet, but there was no time to ponder that success. Instead, Michael opened the back door, shoving Billy inside and tumbling in after him even as Casey slipped into the driver's seat and threw the vehicle into gear.

The sharp acceleration nearly threw Michael off the seat, and as it was, he barely kept Billy from hitting the floor.

The vehicle turned sharply and Michael slid hard to the side with the inevitable momentum. The gears jerked and Casey lurched them ahead, engine grinding as Casey pounded the pedal mercilessly.

"Everything okay up there?" Michael called, bracing himself as best he could while keeping one hand on Billy.

"Peachy," Casey grunted, voice tense with concentration.

The vehicle veered sharply and Michael's head connected hard with the door, throbbing even as he was jerked back in the other direction. "You're making me remember why I never let you drive," he called.

"You should never insult the person in charge of your future," Casey sniped back. He pulled the wheel hard and Billy almost ended up in Michael's lap. "But your point is taken."

Shifting, Michael tried to regain his seat, but found himself ducking low as a shot took out the window over his head. The glass splintered, and Michael ducked, covering Billy as best he could while Casey careened, turning the car so fast that Michael felt the wheels leave the ground.

They didn't fall, and Casey gunned the engine until they regained their equilibrium. They were in a dead straightaway when Michael finally got his head up and steady to look out again.

Men were scattering. Guns flash and bullets pinged. In the front, Casey's eyes were narrowed, his arms straight as he took them headlong toward the exit.

An exit that was thoroughly blocked. Clearly, Jenkins' men had learned something from the ODS previous great escape. They had formed a line of cars and armored vehicles, two deep, across the entire access road.

"Uh, Casey?" Michael asked.

"Trust," Casey muttered, not looking away. "I hear it's a virtue."

Michael grimaced. "And I hear that we're not especially virtuous men."

"Then it's a good thing you have no other choice," Casey grit out, pressing the pedal down harder. Fresh gunfire escalated, cracking the windshield and hitting the seat in front of Michael with a muted puff.

Wincing, Michael felt his heart rate speed up. Leaning lower, he put himself half on top of Billy. The Scot was hot and still, his ragged breaths audible in the close quarters over the rising wail of the engine.

Casey drove without finesse, but this kind of job probably didn't require finesse. It required brute force, which was fortunately Casey's specialty. Michael trusted Casey, trusted him with his life and the mission and the lives of his team, but still.

Michael suppressed a shudder, holding Billy down as the Scot moaned slightly. The engine churned and the patter of gunfire increased. Then, as the barricade of cars approached, Casey veered sharply to the left, pushing through the gathered throng of men and toward the fence line. The car impacted audibly, and Michael was jarred violently. He held on, even as the fence toppled into their windshield and flew with a few glancing hits over their roof.

Distantly, there was yelling. Gunfire came from behind them now as tires screeched and slipped over the terrain. The vehicle hit a few runs before coming clumsily back onto the pavement and Casey jerked the wheel a few more times to right them before bearing down on the gas and going as fast as he could.

By the time Michael regained his equilibrium his heart was still lodged in his throat, ears ringing from the adrenaline. Sitting up, he glanced at Billy first and found the taller man still lying limply on the seat, long legs smashed awkwardly against the far door. One arm was flailed over the edge of the seat and his mouth was open as he drew his fevered breaths.

From there, Michael looked out through the broken windows, noting that they had already gained a substantial distance from the compound. They weren't being followed.

"We don't have to be virtuous," Casey said from the front seat. Michael turned his eyes toward him, noting that his arms were still locked, so stiff that he was shaking and his knuckles were white. The human weapon didn't look back, hardly moved. "We just have to be successful."

Despite everything, Michael had to chuckle. The adrenaline was almost too much, and the release of the laugh was short and bittersweet. Success was the objective, and the relief of breaking free was palpable.

But it was hard to call it success. Not with Billy, unconscious on the seat. Not with Rick, taken hostage on the compound. Jenkins was at large; his men were compromised. This was nothing like success.

Michael swallowed hard, his laughter choked off and forming a hard lump in his chest. Leaving Rick behind went against all his instincts, no matter how necessary it had been. Billy wouldn't have survived any longer in a firefight. Regrouping was the only option.

Michael took a breath, steeling himself against this reality.

"You remember how to get there?" Michael asked.

Casey scoffed. "I won't humor that insult to my intelligence with an answer."

Michael nodded. "How fast can you be there?"

"Faster than we got here," Casey assured him.

Michael steadied himself, eyes turned forward, and hoped it was fast enough.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: A bit less action here as the guys try to regroup.

PART EIGHT

-o-

First priority: Billy.

This was not the first priority in terms of objective importance – at least, not solely – but it was the necessary next step in a proper evaluation of their situation.

Casey was good to his word; they found their makeshift home base quickly and efficiently. When they got there, Casey slammed it into park and Michael was already opening the back door.

Getting Billy out was a somewhat awkward proposition. During the car ride over, Billy had not roused but he had started to moan, twitching slightly as if pained even in unconsciousness. His fever was raging – by palpitation, Michael would guess it was over 103 by now – and it showed now signs of slowing.

Carefully, Michael tugged at Billy, lacing his arms under the Scot's armpits and hauling him back. Billy's head rolled limply against his shoulder, his arms flopping lifelessly as Michael eased them both back.

As Billy's legs fell clear of the seat, Casey was there, scooping them up. Together, the two of them carried Billy's prone form back inside, behind the line of scrabbled together defenses they'd erected during their last visit.

The floor was hard but there was nothing to be done for it. Gently, Michael guided Billy down, arranging him carefully before lowering his head to the ground. Casey was already double backing to the truck, presumably to see what their stolen vehicle afforded them beyond a last minute means of transportation.

This was acceptable to Michael; at the very least, it was efficient. Whatever extra ammunition they'd taken with them was gone now, no doubt partially responsible for the spectacular fireball that had saved them all from certain peril.

That didn't make their new status any less precarious, and really, Michael was grateful for Casey's implicit focus. Because that meant Michael could focus on his first priority.

Billy.

In the dingy warehouse, Billy didn't look particularly better. However, away from the impending sense of doom, it was easier to get a strong sense of the man's condition.

Not that said condition was particularly encouraging.

Michael started by pressing a hand to Billy forehead again, forcing himself to calm as he felt the heat. It was no hotter than before and maybe cooler away from the throes of the action. Still probably hovering around 103, Michael had to guess, but hopefully stabilizing.

Next, Michael pressed his fingers to the pulse point on Billy's neck. The heartbeat there was easy to find, thrumming far too quickly. This was clearly indicative of the fever and the overall strain on his system.

With that, Michael moved to the Scot's chest, undoing the top few buttons of his shirt and leaning down close. The grating of his lungs was easy to hear, the gurgles suggestive of fluid starting to build in the lungs. This was a stark contrast to the dry cough from before, and it wasn't exactly a good development.

After that, he gave the Scot a quick once over. There were no obvious signs of other serious injury – a few scrapes and bruises along his arms and a small cut on his forehead. His pants were ripped and stained, but there seemed to be nothing lurking underneath. Pressing along Billy's torso, he could feel the slight indication of inflammation. Critically, Michael lifted Billy's arm, noting the string of inevitable bug bites.

Jaw set, Michael put Billy's arm back down. There had been no repeat episodes of nausea and vomiting, but with Billy unconscious, that wasn't a surprise. All things considered, the flu was possible but certainly not their luck. The evolution of the illness had to be considered as well, and since they'd been here just over a week, that meant Billy could have easily been infected and the incubating illness was just starting to manifest in earnest.

The severity of the symptoms was perhaps surprising. Billy had only been showing symptoms for a day or two, although Michael knew that the Scot could have been feeling worse before that and simply not have acknowledged it. Left untreated, malaria was serious even in its lesser strains, but Billy's collapse likely indicated one of the more dangerous variations.

Which was just their luck. Billy managed to get bit by an infected insect, managed to get sick despite his vaccination records, and managed to get a serious case while they were miles from help and hours from being able to arrange support. It would seem impossible except that this was the ODS. Impossible things were their specialty. Usually Michael boasted about that, but sometimes it really did not work in their favor.

"I take it I missed all the fun," Billy said, his voice startling Michael out of his analysis.

Michael didn't let his surprise show. Instead, he smiled. "Doing things the easy way would be too boring for you," he quipped in reply.

Billy's smile was weak. He swallowed with difficulty, and Michael could see that he was hiding his pain. "I'm afraid I have horrible timing sometimes," he said, clearly apologetic. "I tried very hard to fight the encroaching darkness, but I found myself overwhelmed."

"With reason," Michael told him. "You've got a pretty bad fever."

Billy's teeth clenched as he nodded. His body started to tremble, eyes blinking rapidly. "I can't say that it feels that way," he said, teeth starting to chatter.

Michael swiped a hand across Billy's forehead, wiping away the sweat. "Chills?"

Billy nodded convulsively. "I never thought a little cold air would feel so disconcerting in such arid heat," he said with obvious effort.

Michael tried to smile for Billy's sake. "Are you going to confess to the muscle pain and headache?"

Billy had the decency to look sheepish. Sick as he was, it was almost pathetic. "All symptoms of the common flu."

"And malaria," Michael reminded him.

Billy tsked, still trembling, almost violently now. "I received my vaccinations, same as you," he said. "And our friendly doctor assured me I was completely up to date and protected."

"You're telling me you passed out during a firefight from the flu?" Michael asked, couching the question in cynicism.

Billy tried to shrug but convulsed a little instead. "I do enjoy my dramatics."

Michael smirked. "Me carrying you ass forward was pretty dramatic," he said. "You're lucky we didn't get shot."

"Why do you think we're still alive?" Billy joked back, voice wavering as his body shook. "Even armed militants know not to mar one of God's perfect creations."

At that, Michael allowed himself to laugh. Casey came up behind them, laying down an armful of supplies. Shaking his head, he stood over Casey's shoulder. "And I was hoping the high fever would mean you might finally be quiet," he said.

Billy's grin was tremulous but unmistakable. "And leave you gents to all the fun?" he said. "I think not." There was a pause, and Billy's eyes flickered from Michael to Casey and back again. His brow creased. "Where's Rick?"

Michael's forced levity faltered. Even Casey had to look away, turning back to the supplies and busying himself.

Billy's face fell, eyes going wide. "He's not—" he tried to say, pushing himself up feebly on his elbows. "I made sure to aim the Jeep away—"

Gently, Michael pushed Billy back down, keeping a firm hand on Billy's shoulder to hold him in place. "He's alive," Michael said, remembering his own last fleeting look at their rookie.

Billy's eyes were unnaturally bright. "But?"

Collecting a breath, Michael refused to let his trepidation show. "He was captured," he said. "Jenkins had him and took him back before we had a chance to follow."

That was what happened, even if there was more to it than that. Normally Michael didn't lie to his men. In their line of work, lies were too easy to come by; they relied on the truth between them to solidify themselves. But Billy didn't need to know the details. He didn't need to know about Michael's choice, to save Billy and leave Rick. Even if Michael's logic was sound, he knew the Scot would never take it well.

Unfortunately, even addled by fever, Billy was smart enough to figure it out. "It's my fault," he breathed, shivering with more vigor now. His body was going stiff, his face creased with pain. "You left him behind when I passed out. It's my fault."

The words were choked, strained, and Billy's body was almost ramrod straight. His breathing was becoming shallow, his eyes wild.

Michael squeezed his shoulder and willed the man to believe him. "It's not," he said. "We needed to regroup. Jenkins has already topped us twice; unless we think ahead, he'll do it again and we can't take that risk with Rick's life on the line."

The assurances were the best Michael had to offer, but Billy was beyond them. His eyes clouded, body slowly going lax as his gaze grew unfocused. The chills abated, replaced by a frightening languidness as the heat took hold again.

Behind him, Casey's stance was rigid. "Chills and hot flashes," he said. "Classic presentation."

"He's been like this for, what, an hour?" Michael asked.

"Which means he's got another three to five hours left," Casey returned. "Unless this strain has a more persistent fever."

Michael's eyes settled grimly on Billy, whose awareness was gone again. "Which means this could get worse," he said.

Casey snerked. "As if it's been going so well so far."

To that, Michael had no reply. He had nothing. Just a foiled mission, a captured teammate, and a possibly dying friend.

-o-

Second priority: assess the situation.

Michael sometimes hated clinical practicality in times like this, but it was simply the way it had to be. With Billy lost in the clutches of the fever, Michael pursed his lips and stood, straightening as he looked steadily at Casey. "What do we have?"

Casey's movements were stiff, jerky. He nodded toward the pile he amassed. "An impressive take, actually," he said. "Not quite as much variety in the weapons but a fairly deep supply of ammo. Jenkins keeps his men well stocked."

Michael nodded back, taking it in. "It's enough to last us for one more fast break," he said.

"But not enough for a full frontal assault," Casey said, voice heavy with the warning. "We can't stage another operation like the one we just got back from. We don't have the fire power."

It was a sobering assessment, though not unexpected. Michael couldn't think that a repeat performance would be his best bet anyway. Jenkins had already proven his prowess in the field, and Michael's team of four was depleted to two now. If the last attempt had been risky, something similar now would only be suicidal.

With a breath, Michael kept his focus. "What else do we have in our favor?" he asked, skirting the issue entirely.

Casey shrugged slightly, shifting his focus from the weaponry. "Minimal other supplies," he reported. "For all the money spent on ammo, they didn't spend much on first aid or survival. I found a few packs, but they were mostly depleted. A few canteens – enough to last us a day, maybe two – and a few snacks." He held up a Snickers bar. "At least Jenkins understands the value of quality American food."

Michael smirked grimly, swiping the bar and putting it in his pocket. "If we're here more than a day, then Billy and Rick are as good as dead," he said.

Casey didn't argue that point with him.

Michael eyed the remainder of the equipment. "Anything else that might help us?"

Casey gestured, a small, futile movement. "Some maps and protocol packets," he said. "They might help us in terms of long term intelligence but they're not going to do us much good in getting Rick out."

Michael nodded. "Any forms of communication?"

"A radio with encrypted channels," he said. "If we had enough time, I might be able to rewire it, but…"

But that would take time. Time they didn't have. Time where Rick was in the enemy's hand and Billy was unconscious with a mounting case of malaria.

"No phone?" Michael asked instead.

"Nothing from them," Casey reported. "I have my cell still, but this far out, it's useless."

"And our SAT phone was in the Jeep, wasn't it?" Michael concluded with a small grimace, remembering the impressive fireball from before.

Casey smiled tersely. "Well, I'm sure it could be worse," he offered blandly.

Michael lifted his eyebrows. "How do you figure?"

Brows knitted, Casey made a face of displeasure. "I was hoping you knew," he said. "That's much more Billy's area than mine."

It was a joke, but instead of lightening the mood it added a somber touch as Michael's eyes drifted inevitably to Billy. He was quieter now but still sleeping fitfully, small tremors shaking him from time to time from his position on the floor.

Looking back up, Michael forced himself to smile. Because Casey wouldn't admit it, but he needed that. He complained about Billy's attitude and railed against the Scot's sometimes impertinent affability, but Michael knew better. Casey relied on Billy, just like he relied on Michael and Rick. With Billy and Rick in peril, Casey was on edge.

Michael had two agents compromised; he couldn't risk a third.

He nodded as resolutely as he could. "Well, I'm sure he'll regale us with the worst case scenarios next time he wakes up," Michael offered. It was meager, but it was something. It was all he had, really, and he hoped it was enough.

Casey's mouth twitched, somewhere between a smile and a grimace. "We'll make Rick listen when he gets back," he added, the hopeful note not lost on Michael.

"Definitely," Michael agreed. He bucked himself up, willing Casey to do the same even as Billy's breaths came hard and heavy from the ground.

"That's the endgame, then," Casey said. "What's the plan?"

-o-

Third priority: get Rick.

This was the nagging element of the mission that Michael had forced himself to put off ever since he made the choice to leave Rick back on Jenkins' compound in the first place. Because in Michael's mind, he wasn't leaving Rick behind. Not really. It was just a temporary setback because he was going to go back and get Rick out.

He just wasn't entirely sure how.

Which was not acceptable. It was Michael's job to know. It was his job to plan. When he was scared, when he was tired, when he had made mistakes: it was his job to get his team out alive.

If he was uncertain about the execution of this third priority, he was steadfast in his commitment to it nonetheless. He stood, still hovering over Billy's prone body but fully facing Casey as he let himself think through the next step.

"So if a full frontal assault is out of the question, we'll have to try something less obvious," Michael began, his brain working.

Casey nodded along. "Jenkins clearly has his men trained for that type of affront," he agreed, as if their near annihilation hadn't made that abundantly clear.

This was part of the problem in multiple ways. First, it meant that their opponent was skilled, armed, and resourceful. Second, it meant that Jenkins was just as good at his job as Michael was at his.

But not better. Michael couldn't let him be better. If he couldn't outgun Jenkins, he would have to out plan him instead. "So we launch a covert operation," he said.

Casey tweaked his head to the side. "Such irony," he said. "A covert operation in a covert operation. It seems like the world should start imploding."

The humor wasn't lost on Michael, but he had no time to indulge it. When his mind was working he had to go with it, and he had to stay with it or he'd lose his train of thought. That was something he couldn't afford, not now. Not ever.

"We have to find where Rick is being kept and find the best way in with the least resistance possible," Michael continued. "The minute the alarm goes out, all our exits will be blocked."

Casey considered this option. "If we're careful we should have enough ammunition to make ourselves a hole, but we'll have to be fast about it."

"We've spent more time on that compound than I'd like already," Michael confessed. "Still, we need to balance our time accordingly. If we put in the time before raising the alarm, then we won't need as much time to get out."

"That's a nice plan," Casey concurred, "but we don't even know where they're holding him or what kind of guard he's under. We'll essentially be flying blind."

This was a problem, and one that Michael was already considering. The answer was actually quite obvious, even if counterintuitive. They were spies; they needed to act like it.

"We'll have to scout it out," Michael said, decisive and sure.

Casey's reaction was one of uncertainty. "You are aware of our time constraints," he said, not pointed but careful.

Michael still bristled. Because he could still remember Rick being forced away. He could still see Billy, sick on the floor. These were real issues, pressing issues. Billy needed medical attention; Rick potentially had mere hours before he was moved and/or killed. Time was of the essence.

But giving into the demand of time would mean a sacrifice in focus. Michael had made that mistake already during this mission. To rectify it, he had to employ the counter response. He had to make the time in order to execute the plan better.

Without flinching, he held Casey's gaze and nodded. "It means we'll only have one shot," he said. "So this time, I want to do it right."

Casey didn't argue. "What do you want to know?" he asked instead.

It was moments like these that Michael loved his team. They understood him; they understood the parameters and the goals. They understood what worked and why the hardest things were the most necessary things. They made his job easier, and on missions like this Michael needed his job to be easier.

"I want to know where he's being held and how many guards he has," Michael said. "I want to know the state of the camp – calm, confusion, packing, already leaving – and I want to know Jenkins' proximity to Rick. We need to know how many guards we can take out prior to raising the alarm. Exits shouldn't be a problem – the closest car will solve that, but we'll need a weak spot in the perimeter to infiltrate unseen."

"Their security monitoring equipment was damaged in the last two escapes," Casey confirmed.

"Which means we should be able to find a lapse in the guard rotation that we can utilize," Michael agreed. "I need to know that precisely."

Casey drew his lips together, sighing a little. His eyes went to Billy and lingered. "It could work," he relented, although the hints of doubt were present in his voice.

Michael followed his gaze, saw the prone Scotsman on the floor. "I know," he said. "More than that, it has to." He paused, looking critically at Casey again. "You think you can find that information?"

Casey lifted his gaze, a flare of indignant determination in his eyes. "I'm insulted," he said. "And I don't intend to humor that with a response."

-o-

No matter how much he tried not to show it, sending Casey made Michael nervous. Not because he didn't trust Casey – because Casey was skilled, capable and more – but because Michael had already risked his men too many times on this mission. Casey was the only one _not _in jeopardy, so ordering him back into the proverbial lion's den gave Michael pause.

However, Michael was not given to emotional reasoning. Fay had always gotten angry that he reverted to logical conclusions during their arguments, but Michael honestly couldn't help it. Missions, like life, had to fit into structured parameters in order to optimize success. Sometimes, the things Michael wanted most were the things he had to forfeit most readily in order to achieve his end goal.

This was no exception. While there was a case to be made for doing his own scouting in order to ensure that he fielded all necessary questions he may have, he knew that the more eyes he had on the problem enabled him to better ensure the best solution. Casey's perspective was a prime complement to his own, thereby increasing the effectiveness in the planning process.

Besides, if something went totally wrong and Michael didn't make it out, Casey needed to have a solid understanding of the compound and its weaknesses to make a full report back to Higgins and/or the local military outposts.

More than that, Casey needed to feel engaged. Michael was already aware that there would be words when Casey was told in no uncertain terms that this was a solo mission and that Casey would be staying behind. The more Casey had to do before that point, the easier it would be to talk him down. No one in the ODS was particularly good at following orders, and Michael was careful to leverage his power as leader with as much nuance as he could.

There was also the issue of Billy, which Michael was treating as a secondary reason, but he knew that was entirely true. Going after Rick would mean leaving Billy behind, and while Michael understood that to be an appropriate risk, he did not relish the thought of relinquishing the care of one of his men. It wasn't a lack of trust in Casey; it was just his responsibility, something that Michael took very, very seriously.

He had to admit, however, that being here with Billy now wasn't doing much to assuage his guilt. If anything, it was making it worse.

Billy had not yet regained consciousness. The fever alternated with the cold, in harsh, violent turns that left Billy sweating and shivering in sudden shifts. Michael had used the blankets to create a makeshift bed, gently lifting the Scot onto one and using another as a pillow. He didn't bothering covering the taller man; with his fever as high as it seemed to be, Michael knew the extra heat wouldn't be something his overtaxed body would be well equipped to handle.

They had limited water, but Michael allowed himself to use some to make a lukewarm compress for Billy, mopping up the sweat off his brow and folding it over to the cooler side intermittently. It probably didn't help much, but at this point, Michael would take whatever he could muster.

Besides, it kept him busy. Michael understood that sometimes inaction was the best solution, but he never liked it. He hated being passive, especially when the mission – and, more importantly, the lives of his mind – hung precariously in the balance.

That was what this was, and Michael would be foolish not to acknowledge it. Rick was taken by their mark, who by all accounts was a maniacal traitor capable and willing to exact his own form of justice. Michael's instincts said Martinez had to be alive, but the nagging doubt of just what Jenkins was able to do was more than a little numbing.

And he'd just sent Casey in, alone and without backup. Granted, he'd ordered the older operative to a strictly observational role, but Casey had never exactly been great at following orders. If the need presented itself or the right opening appeared, Casey would take it without apology or regret. If anyone could do it, it would be Casey without a doubt. But Jenkins had an army and all other advantages. He could lose Casey as readily as he could lose Rick – and never even know it.

Which just left Billy. Michael tried not to consider the odds too much. After all, the odds should have been that Billy would be just fine. That was what vaccinations were for, to prevent preventable illness from hindering the mission. Maybe Billy had just gotten too close to his expiration date on this one; maybe it was just a different strain. Maybe it was just the worst damn luck in the world.

Mostly, it didn't matter. Because Billy was sick, and the statistics regarding untreated, severe malaria were pressing. Malaria was often treatable, but if left unchecked, it could kill. Painfully and irrevocably. It was one of the biggest killers in Africa, and Michael had never appreciated the tragedy of people succumbing to a disease that was so easy to combat until he was sitting next to Billy with nothing but a compress.

Of course, this was more than a regular strain. Michael knew that because Billy had gone down too quickly. Certainly, he'd been downplaying the symptoms for a while, but for it to get this serious, Billy had the worst case scenario.

This wasn't Michael's fault. This was less his fault than Rick and Casey, but sitting there, the guilt was still hard to deal with. Casey might say grief was an exhausting emotion. He was right, of course, but that didn't mean that any of them knew how to deal with it.

Still, sitting there, Michael felt more than exhausted. He felt tense and tired all at once. The adrenaline conflicted with the pervasive weariness. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to sleep or rage.

Instead, he bent over, picking up the compress and folding it along the crease. Carefully, he turned it so the side less flush with fever was down. Then he replaced it gently on Billy's head, placing it right above his thick brows, letting the sweat from the fever soak into it with fresh fervor.

At this Billy stirred, shifting on his makeshift bed, eyes twitching beneath his lids. His body seemed to shudder, his mouth moving wordlessly.

"Easy," Michael soothed, voice low and steady. "Just take it easy."

Before, Billy had followed such actions by drifting back into sleep. This time, however, a fresh tremor shook his body and his eyes shot open, wide and desperate.

Chills, Michael realized. They were entering another phase of chills while the fever fought for control over Billy's battered system.

The rational analysis was second nature to him. A habit, borne over years of plotting and planning. Fay had told him he was borderline obsessive compulsive about things like that, at the beginning with affection. Later, in frustration.

Michael didn't doubt the connection, and he long labored under the belief that the best spies were all a little off in the real world. Less an occupational hazard as survival of the fittest.

Even so, Michael knew Fay's diagnosis was only partially true. Because Michael had inclinations but he didn't have to follow them. He knew how to turn them off. He understood that there was a time for analysis, a time for reason.

And then there was a time for compassion. For support. For just being there for someone else.

That time was now.

Sitting low, Michael maneuvered himself into Billy's line of vision. For a moment, the Scot's eyes roamed, pupils blown with the grip of the illness. Then, Billy's gaze met Michael's and held. It took a long moment before recognition dawned, and Michael smiled in response.

It took another moment, but Billy's lips twitched in the approximation of a smile even as he began to tremble from the chill that visibly swept his body. "I never supported worldwide distribution of vaccines quite as much as I do now," he quipped, the lilting humor unmistakable even with the hoarse weakness of his voice.

Michael didn't let his expression flicker. "We could make you the poster child of the campaign," he joked.

Billy's eyebrows lifted, and the tremors picked up in intensity. "Seems downright cruel," he said, "letting people suffer and perish in the throes of an entirely preventable disease."

"Mostly preventable," Michael amended. "You could also be the poster child for hellish bad luck, considering you're up on your vaccines and are still here."

Billy managed to shrug, eyes a little heavy. His teeth started to chatter intermittently, despite Billy's obvious efforts to keep it under control. "Such is the peril when man plays God," he said, his body starting to buck as the chill gripped him tighter.

At that, Michael had to frown. He shook his head. "We'll check with medical when we get back," he said. "They probably just mixed your file up; missed the dates."

As his body convulsed, Billy still found a way to smile. It twisted with a grimace, but Michael could still read the intent. "That would make it – make it handy for you," he said.

"It's just logic," Michael said.

"Wishful – thinking," Billy ground out, his jaw muscles twitching as he tried to keep himself under control. "You can face anything – except the terrifying – notion that some things – may not be under your control."

"If we're careful—"

"Things still go askew," Billy said, breathing harshly now. His limbs were taut as he tried to control his shivering. He shook his head in short, jerky motions. Even in pain, Billy's blue eyes were clear and certain on this. "You're not God. Our ever fearless leader, undaunted by the challenges ahead, but not God." The shudder that shook him was worse than before. "Not God."

The words trailed off, choked with effort, and Michael felt his own chest seize up. His team always knew; Michael worked so hard to hide things, so hard to control things, and his team knew anyway. And no matter what they were facing, his team never blamed him. Billy was suffering and he was the one offering comfort.

If Michael ever needed a clearer reminder of his own limitations, this was certainly compelling evidence. Sitting there, he was useless. He could offer nothing to assuage the fever, nothing to comfort his ailing teammate. Rick was in enemy hands. Casey was off in the line of fire. Billy was suffering right in front of him.  
_  
You're not God.  
_  
"I know," he said, throat tight, even as he tried to smile. He let his hand rest heavily on Billy's trembling shoulder. "I know."

Billy's eyes glazed, though, his body shifting as the trembling increased. His gaze roamed, jaw working as he groaned.

Michael frowned, brow creasing. "Billy?"

Billy bucked harder, head shaking as his eyes blinked. "I'm sorry," he said, straining now. "Holding you back – Rick –"

Billy was writhing now as the chills increased, and Michael tentatively held him down, trying to be as careful as he could. "Easy, easy," he soothed. "It's okay. You're not God either, remember?"

The quip was apt, but it was lost on Billy. His face twisted with pain. "Should have been left behind," he said. "It should have been me."

Michael's heart twisted, but he refused to acknowledge the conflicting emotions. Instead, he kept his grip steady, easing Billy back to the ground. "Shouldn't have been any of you," he said, gently now as Billy's body heeded his command. "And I'll fix that. I promise."

It was an outrageous promise, maybe, but one he had to make. He wasn't God, but he needed to try. For Rick, for Casey, for Billy: he had to try.

Billy's expression went from pained to grieved as his eyelids fluttered, before settling closed. His body twitched a moment longer before the tension dissipated and he lay limp back on his makeshift bed.

Michael stayed where he was, moving his hand from the Scot's arm to his forehead, refolding the compress. As he pressed it down, he felt the fresh heat, more aggressive than it was before. The fever was rising.

Billy's face was slack now, and he didn't flinch when Michael ran the compress across his forehead, collecting the sweat as he dragged it down Billy's cheeks and around his neck. Michael only had a rudimentary knowledge of the disease, but this seemed fast – too fast. Billy's conditioning was worsening, and while malaria was entirely treatable they needed the resources to do that.

He needed to get Billy out of here.

But he needed to get Rick out of here, too. And there was no feasible way to do both simultaneously. Rick's rescue couldn't be postponed. Any delay, and they could lose Rick forever. Either to death or as a prisoner. Michael had left Carson to that fate; he couldn't do the same to Rick. He wouldn't.

But that meant watching Billy suffer. That meant risking Billy's life. It was a sacrifice the Scot would willingly make, but that didn't make Michael feel any better.

Because failure was failure. Rick or Billy or Casey, for that matter. Michael had to save them all or the fact was that he really hadn't saved any of them.

That was the fatal flaw in all his reasoning and planning. He operated in a compromised reality because he did not allow himself to factor in the possibility of certain failures. They had to live. They had to get out together.

Looking at Billy, Michael's stomach churned uneasily. There was simply no other option but total success.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Let's see if this whole rescue operation actually pans out this time around…

PART NINE

-o-

Michael was a creature of habit.

When old routines failed him new ones developed, evolved from the remnants of what had worked and what needed to work. He was reliable and resilient in this. He considered it to be less a task of invention and more a matter of adaptation. Mostly, Darwin would be proud.

This latest routine had only a few hours to evolve, but they were painful, vivid hours. Billy's fever continued to rise, and the bouts of chills and heat became increasingly violent. The Scot was no longer conscious – raving with incoherent moans as the convulsions shook him – and each time he settled into the fevered darkness he seemed to slip further away.

Mostly, there was nothing to be done. But Michael's tasks – though seemingly irrelevant – were the lynchpin of his sanity. During the fever, Michael used some of the tepid water to wipe Billy down. He trickled some into this Scot's mouth, careful to ensure the taller man didn't choke. He took Billy's pulse at his neck, at his wrist, roughly calculated his blood pressure from all indications and then repeated the gentle process.

The bouts with chills were harder, and Michael sat close, maneuvering the makeshift pillow to cushion the worst of Billy's convulsions. It had been nearly five hours, when Billy lapsed into stillness and didn't rouse again.

Outside, it was dark. Michael checked his watch without emotion, seeing the seconds tick by with as much dispassion as he could manage. He stood every hour, walked once around the perimeter, checked his gun, and settled back down.

These habits weren't much, but they were something. Intrinsically, they had little value, but Michael understood the quirks every agent had. The way Casey sang when he was nervous. The way Rick's jaw worked as he paced when he wanted to question something but didn't know how. The way Billy always found a way to move, exchanging uncertainty for jokes.

Michael kept routines. Silly things, conscious ticks that he purposefully established to bring order and predictability to his life and missions. It kept him grounded.

And he needed to be grounded.

The minutes slipped to hours. Billy got worse. Rick was captive and Casey wasn't back yet and Michael needed to be grounded.

So he moved the compress, checked Billy's pulse. He checked the perimeter, readied his gun, and settled in.

Then, there was a noise.

There had been occasional noises – the shifting of the siding, the faint flap of a tarp over a window, Billy snuffling in his illness – but this was different. The distant rumble was quiet at first, then louder and louder. Michael pictured it, could see the vehicle – larger than their Jeep, army grade – it was a good match for the car they'd swiped and it was time for Casey to be back.

Still, Michael checked his watch. There was reason for caution.

Careful, he checked his gun. It was still loaded. Glancing at Billy, Michael noted that the taller man was unmoving, mouth open as the sweat collected and soaked his hair. He wasn't fine, but he wouldn't get worse if Michael left.

It was perhaps the lesser of two evils, but still a necessary choice. Cautious, he got to his feet. Moving quickly, he scaled the distance to the wall, pressing himself against a wall and peering out one of the blown out windows.

The car was closer now, and the headlights went off as the car went in park. There was no attempt to hide, but Michael kept himself primed just in case. A few seconds later, Casey unloaded. He looked toward the building, waving his gun. "I can only hope you've managed not to be overrun since I've been gone."

Michael let himself relax, just a little. "I was beginning to worry about you," he said, voice casual but he kept himself stiff, eyes on the darkened car, just to be safe.

Casey grunted, pushing through the door. "Your lack of faith is insulting," he muttered. The door shut behind him, and he zeroed in on Michael immediately. "But since I worried the same, perhaps I can't fault you."

There was no sign of distress, no sign of visible injury. Casey was back and he was fine.

The fact that something had gone _right _was such a shock that Michael still had trouble letting himself believe it. He hesitated, still standing near the wall, even as he let his aim fall. "With the way this mission's gone," he quipped.

Casey made a face of implicit agreement. "I just wish I could tell you it was going to get easier," he said.

Michael stepped away, moving back toward Billy as he shook his head. "If that were the case, then I'd really start to worry," he said.

Casey followed him. "Touché," he said.

As they got back to the hobbled together base, Michael stepped around a crate, settling back next to Billy. His newfound habit reasserted itself, and Michael carefully lifted the compress, wiping it across Billy's forehead before settling it back in place.

"How is he?" Casey asked.

Michael's throat was tight, but he nodded. "This is Billy we're talking about," he said. His fingers felt for the pulse on his neck, then the pulse at his wrist. "He'd say he was just fine."

"And he'd be the biggest liar among us," Casey said with a snort of amused derision.

Finished with his routine, Michael settled back, turning his attention to Casey. "Which is why you need to tell me the good news."

The meager humor faded and Casey settled on a crate on the opposite side of Billy. His gaze lingered just for a moment before he sighed and looked fully at Michael. "They seem to be keeping him in that last building on the compound," he began.

"Didn't it take on structural damage when Billy rammed it?" Michael asked.

This time, Casey visibly didn't let his gaze flicker toward the unconscious Scot. Michael understood; Casey thrived when focused. Billy was a distraction he couldn't afford just yet. "Some, but only to the front," he reported. "They've got Rick locked up in an office at the back."

"With an outer wall?" Michael asked, reimagining the building from his brief visits.

Casey inclined his head with a margin of satisfaction. "Even a window."

Michael actually came close to smiling; he might have, were he not so exhausted. "That is good news."

"Agreed," Casey said. "However, the room is also carefully guarded. Two armed soldiers the entire time I was there."

Two armed soldiers was less than ideal, but an outer wall with a window meant streamlined access and possibly a faster exit. It was about as much as Michael could hope for.

"I also have reason to believe they've mined the room," Casey added.

Michael's thought process stopped. "What? Why would you think that?"

Casey shrugged. "Probably because I saw them do it," he replied. "They seem to be packing up, gearing to move out. Most of the men are loading trucks while the rest are fielding the exterior of the compound, but they spared two men to rig the place."

"Thinking that any attempt at rescue would happen through the window," Michael concluded. It was smart; it was the kind of forward thinking that protected one's assets. It also made his job exponentially more difficult.

Michael's eyes drifted toward Billy, and the pale, lax features made his stomach churn. He nodded, taking a breath before looking back at Casey with as much determination as he could muster. "It's still doable."

Casey looked more than a little skeptical. "The room is rigged to explode," he said. "Not to mention the entire place is swarming with people."

"The crowds will make it easier," Michael said. "The fact that they've rigged it means they don't have time to put a full watch on. They're counting on blasting us all sky high as opposed to fighting us off."

"Which, given the rigging, seems to be a fair assessment," Casey countered.

"But we know it's there," Michael argued, emphatically now.

"I saw the wiring," Casey said. "You don't want to trip it."

"So we won't," Michael continued, the plan unfolding in his mind. "We use the haze of confusion and what few supplies we have here to blend in."

"And go in the front door," Casey said. He was thoughtful, nodding. "It's just audacious enough to work. You still have the guards."

"Two armed guards are the least of my worries," Michael said. "Once Rick's free, we set the explosives and that's our exit."

"Well, assuming of course that you run like hell," Casey said.

"I thought that was a given," Michael replied ruefully. Then he hesitated. "How did Rick look?"

"I was far back but he seemed no worse for wear," Casey said, face darkening just slightly. "I think he'll be up for a run in the desert. We'll have to make it a quarter mile at least, though, to get to the car."

Michael considered that. It made sense. It would be as safe as anything. Except…

Except that Casey was presuming that they were both going.

In some ways, it wasn't a bad supposition. Breaking Rick out of a highly fortified compound with a tactical genius in control was nothing to scoff at. Michael's plan needed to be comprehensive, his execution flawless. Any oversight would likely result in death and/or capture.

Having two people would minimize that risk to some degree. Two people could keep watch while moving forward, more easily disarm two guards without a single gunshot. Two people meant that someone could carry Rick and fire if necessary.

Two people in the field, though, meant that Billy was alone.

Michael's gaze went downward. Billy was getting worse – much worse. He was entirely vulnerable and every minute they spent in the field was one less minute Billy was away from the medical care he received. Two people in the field meant sacrificing Billy's health.

Which was why Michael was going alone.

The resolve was sudden but certain, and he looked back up with renewed fortitude. "Just me," he said, making the declaration as unimpeachable as he could. "I'll go in, get Rick, and get out."

The incredulity on Casey's face was unmistakable. "That's suicide," he said. "With me, it's still a death wish, but at least it's not flat out stupid."

"We can't leave Billy alone," Michael said. "If he gets much worse, you'll need to drive him out of here."

"And leave you behind?" Casey asked.

"We stole one car," Michael said.

"Yeah, and that's gone so well," Casey snapped. It came across as anger; Michael understood it implicitly as fear.

"It's not ideal," Michael agreed. "But I can't leave any of you behind. Not you, not Rick. Not Billy. If he gets worse…"

Casey's brow furrowed. "So send me," he said bluntly. "I'm the human weapon, not you."

It was something Michael had considered. Casey was well equipped for the job.

But it was still Michael's job. He'd put his men in too much risk; he wouldn't sacrifice Casey as well. If this went south, he wanted both Casey and Billy in safety. Michael wasn't a human weapon, but he wasn't exactly a wilting flower in the field.

He shook his head. "I'm going."

"No," Casey replied flatly.

Michael's eyes narrowed. For all the ODS bristled against the chain of command, Michael had always taken comfort in his men's ability to follow his orders. "Yes."

"No," Casey said again, even more resolute now.

"That's an order," Michael growled, the tension swelling in his gut now.

Casey sat back, his defiance mounting. "Over my dead body."

There was a wheeze and a faint chuckle. "I believe that's my line in this case."

Michael didn't startle, but his shift of attention was immediate. He let his face soften, refusing to show the concern and growing determination that had been there just seconds before.

Not that it did much good; even with his eyes only half open, it was clear that Billy saw right through him.

Still, Michael was stubborn about these things. He smiled. "Over no one's dead body," he said, as if in finality. "But that's not your concern. You should be resting."

Billy blinked, weary and tired. "Seems that's all I've been doing," he said. "Hardly seems fitting when my mates are facing sure peril and probable death."

Michael squeezed Billy's arm, as encouragingly as he could. "Let us worry about that, okay?"

Billy nodded dimly, a small tremor shaking him. "Most assuredly," he said, far too easily. Then his blue eyes focused even through the fever. "Because you're not going to risk anything on my account."

The gaze was piercing, and for a moment, all Michael could do was sit there, paralyzed by its surprising intensity.

Fortunately, while Casey disagreed with him on many things, he did not waver in this. "I don't believe we asked you," he said dully, but the lingering force of Casey's will made it a clear non-negotiable.

For most people, that would be enough. But Billy wasn't cowed any easier than the rest of him, especially when it came to Casey. He shook his head, vehement as the shivers ratcheted up a notch. "But it is my life you're considering, aye?" he asked, all too knowingly.

Michael didn't let his frustration show. Of course Billy knew. He pursed his lips. "You know we have to," he said. There was no way to skirt the issue; at least, no way that Billy would allow. But honesty might just work, because Billy had few weaknesses, but guilt was one of them. "Your life is just as important as the rest of ours."

"A sentiment I appreciate – truly," Billy said, swallowing with difficulty. "Which is why we are all best served if we stay together."

"In case you forgot, you've got a nasty case of malaria," Casey reminded him gruffly.

Billy nodded. "And I'm all for a comfortable round of anti-malarial medication," he said. His body convulsed slightly and his face pinched. "And perhaps some anti-nausea medication as well."

"Which is why you can't come," Michael said. "Sending you and Casey back is the best chance to ensure that we all survive."

"No," Billy said. "It's the best chance that I'll survive and Casey and I will be going back alone."

Casey looked up, met Michael's gaze. This had been his point, and while Casey had enough respect for Michael not to agree out loud, the implication was clear.

Billy took a staggering breath, rallying himself. "We all go to get young Rick," he said.

"You wouldn't even be able to walk to the car," Casey pointed out.

"So carry me to the bloody car," Billy snapped. "And leave me there while you get Rick. I can be the lookout, for whatever that's worth. We'll all be together and it won't have cost me much time." He coughed, body trembling. "At this point, a few more hours isn't likely to make much difference."

Billy was being nonchalant and logical. The logic was sound, perhaps, but the nonchalance was forced. A few hours might make all the difference. They were flirting with disaster when it came to Billy's condition, and yet Billy's option had all the elements of a sound compromise.

Having a car in place would greatly simplify the escape. Having an extra man to drive while another could tend to Billy and Rick had definite appeal.

And yet, if something went wrong, Michael would sacrifice his entire team, not just half of it.

Billy's eyes stayed steady, even as his body threatened to give in to the tremors. "You know I'm right," he rasped. "It's the best of all worlds; an ODS perfection."

Casey's silence was an implicit agreement. Michael was outnumbered and running out of excuses.

Not that he would necessarily let that stop him.

But before he had a chance to voice his obvious concerns and counterarguments, Billy shuddered, face twisting with pain.

"Promise me," he ground out, eyes beseeching him now. "Promise me you won't save me at anyone's expense."

It was a stupid promise, a foolish one. One Michael couldn't give even if he wanted to.

And yet, it was one he couldn't deny.

His will wavered and he nodded his assent.

Billy's face relaxed, the relief palpable. Then he jerked, body curling to the side as his stomach revolted and he threw up again.

The retching was long and painful, and it took both Michael and Casey to hold the Scot up and keep him from falling face first into his own vomit. When it was over, Billy's body went slack, eyelids fluttering as consciousness left him.

Gently, Michael rolled Billy back onto the makeshift bed, settling his long limbs into a comfortable position. For a second, no one spoke, all eyes on Billy as he took one struggling breath after another.

"So that's the plan?" Casey asked.

Michael's stomach was heavy, his throat tight. His eyes stung and he didn't let himself blink as he nodded. "Yeah," he said, almost grim. "That's the plan."

-o-

Michael was a good leader. That meant he'd do anything for his men. He risked life and limb and sometimes even national security. He defied orders and he overrode common sense. He broke laws and overcame the odds.

He succeeded. At any cost, he succeeded.

In this, Michael was nothing if not efficient. With the plan set, he did not linger to refine it or even to second guess it. There wasn't time. Any hesitation and their slim window would be gone.

By his calculations, Jenkins' deal would already underway. Based on Casey's observations, after that, the group would only need about an hour to pack up and ship out to whatever secondary location Jenkins had improvised. The drive was maybe 40 minutes when speeding but they would have to ditch the car at least a mile out and take a circuitous route by foot, adding another good half hour to their commute.

In short, there was no time. Hell, there was barely time to load things up. As it was, he and Casey worked together, lugging the supplies in tandem and throwing them haphazardly in the back of the car. The only time they slowed was for Billy, carrying him gently by the blanket they'd been using for a bed. Michael took the corners near his shoulders while Casey lifted him near his feet. Together, they carefully walked, tugging the insensate Scotsman to the car with all the care they had left in their tired bodies.

They eased him down in the back, shoving aside the guns and supplies they'd reloaded earlier. Billy groaned, shifting restlessly, but he slipped back to unconsciousness as Michael went back to work. It wasn't perfect – if the ride got as reckless as Michael feared it might, Billy would be dangerously unrestrained – but it would have to do for now.

Michael found a spare hat in the glove box and slipped it on as he climbed into the driver's seat. He adjusted it, glancing back in the mirror at Casey. The older operative had set up next to Billy, perched staunchly as he set about reorganizing their supplies.

"You good?" Michael asked.

Casey looked at him, expression banal. "That's like asking a man jumping from a plane without a parachute if he's good."

"Which you've done," Michael pointed out.

Casey's lips twitched in the small semblance of a smile. "There you go."

Satisfied, Michael nodded. "I'd still hold on," he recommended.

Bracing himself, Casey inclined his head. "Duly noted."

Then Michael turned the key, pressed his foot down and took off.

-o-

The thing was, Michael was a good leader. That meant he'd do anything for his men. _Anything._ That wasn't a decision he came to lightly, not in their line of work, not when anything meant_ anything._

Even lying to them.

Especially lying to them.

A half mile out, Michael parked behind the lone outcropping of plants and a large rock. He'd been driving slow with the lights off for a mile now, so when he killed the engine the soft hum in the arid night was barely audible.

Checking his gun, he packed as much ammo as he could, opened the door and finally looked back at Casey.

"How is he?" he asked.

Casey paused, looking down. His jaw worked just for a moment. "Still not conscious again," he reported. "He's running out of time. He won't make it to tomorrow without some kind of treatment."

It was the answer Michael expected. It did nothing to ease his nerves but it did solidify his resolve.

"Watch him, then," Michael said. "If I'm not back in an hour, I want you to take him to the nearest hospital."

Casey stared at him as he processed the words. "I'm going with you," he said finally, as if that was a protest Michael would listen to.

Michael shook his head. "It's too risky."

"It's the only risk that makes sense," Casey countered.

"If something happens, I need to know that you'll get Billy out," Michael insisted.

"But if I don't go, the odds of you getting Rick out aren't good."

Michael gave a dry laugh. "Since when have our odds ever been good?"

"And sometimes that goes against us," Casey said pointedly. "Or do I need to remind you of how this mission has gone so far?"

At that, Michael sighed. "There's no time to argue about this."

"Which is why I'm going," Casey said again, more adamantly now.

"Casey—"

"Michael," Casey shot back, eyes blazing now. "You_ promised _Billy."

That one hurt; Casey knew how to go for the heart and wasn't afraid to do it. Michael just nodded and refused to give in. "And I promised all of you I'd get you out," he said. "That's the promise that matters most. The one you'll know I'll keep."

Casey didn't waver, his eyes still boring into Michael. The obvious protest was there; the defiance was burning bright, threatening to burst. He could overtake Michael by force if he wanted, and they both knew it.

But they also both knew that Michael was right. Yes, they had a better chance of getting Rick out if they both went. But the improved odds didn't warrant risking the second man. Not when Billy would die alone out here if they failed. The big picture left them with no good options, but this one was good enough.

More than that, this one was all they had.

Casey drew a breath then let it out again. "Two hours," he said.

Michael's mouth lifted in a small smile. "Hour and a half."

"Fine," Casey said. "Just remember, the room is rigged."

"And there's a lack of security around the back of the compound," Michael said. "I got it."

Casey didn't look particularly convinced, but he sat back, marginally mollified. "Just come back," he said. "And bring Rick with you. He's the only one with any kind of bedside manner at all."

Michael nodded. "I'll do what I can."

Casey didn't reply this time; Michael didn't wait. Instead, he closed the door, turning himself toward the compound. In the dark it was nothing more than a small collection of lights in the distance. The two other times he'd been there it had gone badly. All of his best laid plans for naught.

This time it would be different. It had to be.

Resolved, he ducked around the truck, checking the open desert before making his way out into the open.

-o-

In his head, Michael's plan was carefully computed and perfectly delineated. He had contingencies and methodologies, mapped out minutely in order to have the best chance at success possible. He could account for everything except the emotions. The way it felt, the arid night air in his lungs. The sand shifting under his feet. The pounding of his heart as he took step after step away from Casey and Billy and toward Rick.

His palms were sweaty but he didn't bother to wipe them down. He moved quickly and quietly, gun in hand, the extra ammo in his pockets landing heavily against him as he jogged through the night. He stuck to the fringes, just beyond what would be visible in a normal security sweep. The night worked in his favor for this, and he used whatever natural hiding place he could to obscure his movements as best he could.

It was tedious work, not so much exhausting as it was frustrating. Because Michael understood the value of a rear approach but the time his circuitous route took was pressing, each minute feeling like a lifetime – Billy's lifetime, Rick's lifetime. It was hard to be patient and slow when other people were living on seemingly borrowed time.

Still, when he made it around back, the benefit of his plan was plain. The security was lighter in this direction, exactly as Casey had explained. Crouched behind a rock, Michael watched as a guard paced by, disappearing around the bend in the fence and behind one of the buildings they'd demolished earlier in the day.

He watched a moment longer, noting the patterns of the men inside. It wasn't quite chaos but it was close. People were performing their duties, but it only took one look to see how distracted they were.

This was the good news. Possibly some of the best news he had all day.

Narrowing his eyes, he scanned the fence, looking for any obvious entry points. It was mostly intact despite the earlier skirmish. There was a gate in one direction, but with a man at check, it was the least appealing option. Then his eyes zeroed in on the dark section toward the far corner. There was nothing special about it, and it was out in the open a bit, but the darkened portion was outside the beams of the two protruding security lights.

It wasn't a perfect place but it was about as good as Michael was going to get. Without stopping to doubt himself, Michael broke out into a light jog, traversing the final distance with relative ease. As he approached, he traded his gun for the knife tucked into his pants. Glancing around furtively, he willed his nerves to calm, swallowing back the inevitable rush of adrenaline before slicing clean through the metal.

The hole he carved out was small and he had to duck to get through it. His shirt caught but he eased his way free, standing promptly and adjusting his hat. Getting to his feet, he took up a steady pace, adjusting his hat and keeping his head down as he made his way to the first building he saw.

At this point, true stealth was futile. He was going to be seen. The key was to ensure that he wasn't noticed. There was a distinction in that, and an important one. People tended to look for things that stood out, not necessarily things that didn't belong. True, being Caucasian was a drawback, but Jenkins' recruitment strategy had clearly been one of expanding Sunday's militant base. While the majority of men were black, Jenkins' had secured some others – probably ex-military, if Michael had to guess – which would give Michael a little leeway.

A little, but not much. His success rested entirely on his ability to blend in. This level of finesse was often Billy's forte, but Michael did have the unparalleled blessing of being entirely nondescript.

Fortunately, everyone was so set on trying to get the hell out that they were too aware of someone trying to get the hell in. This wasn't much, but Michael didn't have much else going in his favor tonight so he was going to take whatever he could get.

Head down, he nodded as he passed a group of soldiers, not slowing as he made his way across the compound. There was chattering and occasional yelling; cars rumbled to life, making their way to the exit and lining up for what he could only assume was the transport caravan. From the look of things, they were almost ready to go.

Which was fine with Michael. He was ready to go, too. But unlike Jenkins' army, he only had one thing to load up.

With that in mind, Michael darted his way to the last building. He passed men carrying out boxes and he nodded in deferment as he ducked inside after they'd left. This building was busier than the rest, some of the rooms still being packed up.

Michael didn't slow, even though he wasn't exactly sure where he was going. He knew the general location thanks to Casey's surveillance, but he had to trust his innate sense of direction to lead him through the corridors.

Then, he saw it.

Two guards.

They looked like the rest of the men, except there they were. Just standing there.

What would need to be guarded during an exit? Nothing that needed to be packed up. Nothing that they were leaving behind.

A prisoner.

Michael turned the corner and took a breath. In truth, he would have preferred a bit more time to prepare, to plot out a better entrance and an apt distraction. But there wasn't time, and really, the only thing he had going for him was the element of surprise.

So, surprise.

Michael walked up to them and smiled. "Hey, I was wondering if you had seen Jenkins around here?" he asked.

The men frowned, one going for his gun, but Michael didn't give him the chance. He kicked at the first gun before slamming his fist into the second man. His knuckles split and his hand exploded but he didn't let it stop him. This time, he spun, using his leg to boot the first man in the stomach, following up with a knee to the forehead that sent him sprawling.

The second was reaching for his walkie-talkie and Michael lashed out, shoving him hard against the door. They crashed together and the man floundered for a moment before pushing back. Michael's balance shifted and he teetered precariously.

The man yelped and Michael was suddenly aware of the racket. He had his gun, but any shot now would bring the entire compound down on him. It was too soon for that. Michael needed to end this – quickly and quietly. Feeling desperate, his heart skipped a beat and he held his breath, ramming the palm of his hand forward with all the force he could muster.

He hit flesh and there was the sound of cartilage breaking. The man's nose gave way but Michael didn't stop. The man's head hit hard against the wall, and Michael felt the tension leave the man's body as he slid to the floor in an immobile heap.

Lungs burning, Michael held himself very still, not daring to move. He listened down the hallways, trying to pick up any sound of movement. There were distant voices, but not imminent. He hadn't been detected.

He let out a breath, the relief almost paralyzing for a moment. But there was no time to relish this victory, not with the next leg of the rescue still before him.

With that in mind, Michael turned his attention to the door. Without the guards, it was innocuous, as nondescript as the rest he had seen. There was no window and the locking mechanism appeared to be rudimentary, nothing he couldn't crack with a paperclip.

Too bad he didn't have a paperclip. His mission for a damn paperclip, horses be damned.

The tension peaked and he reached out, trying the handle tentatively. When it moved, he held himself very still.

The door could be unlocked for a number of reasons. Maybe in the shuffle, they'd lost the key. Maybe they just hadn't wanted to waste time with it since they'd be leaving soon anyway. Maybe Rick had proven difficult and easy access in was more important than potential easy access out. Maybe it had just been an oversight and these two guards would have their asses handed to them when this little escapade was done.

Or maybe Jenkins wanted Michael to open it.

The thought was daunting, and threw his logical reasoning into overdrive. What if the entire thing had been a set up? What if the window had been to tempt him and the rigging had been to dissuade him, all to point him here? To this door?

And if Michael turned the knob, maybe he'd blow himself and Rick up. Maybe Michael would destroy his own mission, his own men.

Maybe.

Michael closed his eyes, trying to think which risk was worth taking.

The wrong choice might kill him. It might kill Rick. And he couldn't count on Casey going back, staying true to his word. It could kill Casey, too. And then Billy would die alone.

And if he did nothing, then Rick was a lost cause. The result was the same.

Failure.

Michael was going to _fail._All his planning, all his logic, and he was going to fail.

"You do impress me," a voice shattered his thoughts.

Michael didn't flinch, though. He wasn't actually surprised. Pressing his lips together, he turned. "Jenkins."

The man offered him a bland smile in return. "Anyone else would have blown themselves up by now," he said. "I figured, the lesser trained would have tripped the wires by the window. Those with superior skills would be done in by the door."

"They're both rigged," Michael concluded, the realization settling with new certainty. He inclined his head. "Clever."

Jenkins shrugged. "You can't plan for rebellion without being somewhat gifted in such things."

"Your abilities are pretty good," Michael conceded.

Jenkins' look was condescending. "That's an understatement," he said. "Though I haven't quite pegged you just yet. At first I really did think you were a drug dealer."

"And now?" Michael asked wryly.

"Possibly special forces," he said, but he shook his head. "CIA seems more likely for this type of prolonged undercover assignment."

Michael didn't confirm or deny it. "Then why haven't you killed me?"

"I have allowances in my plans," Jenkins said. "The same as you. I had to think, if I could keep you alive long enough to find out what the CIA knows about me, the better off my chances are."

"Torture?"

Jenkins frowned dismissively. "It would be a bit predictable," he agreed. "But maybe just the threat is enough."

"You think I'll cave that easily?"

"I think you'll do anything for your men," Jenkins said.

This sounded more brilliant than it actually was. Good leaders saw it in other good leaders. The desire to protect one's men was a fundamental part of the job. Jenkins was willing to compromise foot soldiers, but he was still a leader. But the fact was, he understood lives were expendable.

Michael didn't.

In this, Jenkins' assessment was correct. One captured operative was only useful when parlaying to another. This part of the plan was good.

But he thought Michael would capitulate. He was expecting Michael to give in, if only in the pretense of buying time. The smug look on his face said it all.

Jenkins gave him an earnest look. "The best traps are the ones where the prey hang themselves," he said, his tone pedantic.

The man was downright pleased with himself. He'd led Michael this far, maneuvered him this much, he thought it was over.

The problem was, in all the intricate plans, Jenkins had forgotten that sometimes the best solutions were the simplest. Sometimes you didn't need to plan. Sometimes you just needed to do what seemed right and hope that when the dust settled, everything would work out for the best.

Michael planned enough to know when to stop. He plotted enough to know when it was time to throw the whole damn playbook in the fire and just _act. _

With that determination, Michael shrugged. "That's not bad," he said. "You've accounted for just about everything."

"That is my job," Jenkins said. "Now, if you will, please hand me your gun before this gets messy."

Michael lifted his gun. "This?" he asked. Then he shrugged. "Okay."

In that moment, Jenkins realized his mistake. Realized the contingency he'd overlooked. Because he thought himself to be too invaluable to dispose of. He'd counted on Michael not wanting to kill, but capture. He'd thought the sheer threat of being backed into a corner meant that Michael would fight like hell to get out.

Jenkins, however, was wrong.

The man was going for his gun, but it was too late. Michael ignored all the plans he made, trusted his gut, narrowed his eyes, and pulled the trigger.

-o-

Jenkins looked surprised as he fell. Michael wanted to take satisfaction in that but, in truth, he was really too busy to relish it much. After all, he still had a rigged door to open, an operative to rescue, and an escape to make past an army.

The problem was, the more Michael thought about it, the worse off he was. That was Jenkins' flaw – maybe his fatal one – he thought too much. He planned too perfectly. Combat situations required precision and forethought – and a hell of a lot of luck. And, maybe most importantly, the instincts to know when how to use that luck to the maximum advantage.

Case in point: Jenkins was down and Michael had to open a rigged door. True, Jenkins could have been lying about the door, but lies weren't his style. The door was rigged, Michael's instincts had been right.

But Jenkins was an ammunitions expert. The bomb at the hotel had been messy but controlled. It probably wasn't even meant to be fatal. Just enough to throw Michael on his ass. Shock value. That was how you won wars without risking too many men, and Jenkins certainly didn't need to be throwing his men away even if he didn't value them as equals.

In short, if Michael couldn't beat Jenkins at a game of chess, then it was time just to throw all the pieces on the floor and trust his own fortitude to win out in the end.

Jaw set, he pressed himself against the wall, reaching out tentatively for the handle. He took a breath. Then another.

If he was wrong, he might kill Rick. He might kill himself.

He wasn't wrong.

Determined, he wrapped his fingers around the handle, pushed down and pulled back. As the hinges inched open, something clicked and Michael dove to the side, covering his head as he fell and the explosion ripped the wall behind him.

-o-

His ears rang; his heart thumped. Dust was settling, debris shifting with audible groans. His body ached, a sharp pain along his back where a fresh wetness was spreading.

The sensations were vast, overwhelming. But they led to one simple truth: he was alive.

Ultimately, nothing else mattered. If he was alive, then the mission could go on.

The mission mattered. He'd deal with the rest later, one way or another.

With this determination, he got to his feet. His equilibrium wavered and his vision darkened around the edges, but he didn't give in to the pull of unconsciousness. Time was critical now; with the explosion, reinforcements would be funneling in to see what had happened. When they realized that Jenkins had been felled, he imagined they wouldn't take it well.

It would be chaos, of course, which would work mostly to Michael's advantage. Haphazard attack strategies weren't nearly as effective, but they could still be deadly. Which was why Michael needed to get as much of a head start as he possibly could.

Woozy, he forced himself to steady, squinting while his vision cleared. As he suspected, the bomb was specifically directed. The door and its frame were blown away, flinging debris into the wall across the hall, but beyond that, the damage was contained. And now Michael had a clear shot straight into the room.

He took one step, faltered, then took another. By the time he cleared the crumbling threshold, he could mostly see again, though his ears were still struggling to clear. He would have preferred to hear the sounds of impending danger, but with his heart pounding as loudly as it was, it wouldn't make much difference.

Besides, it was his vision that mattered as he saw Rick.

The youngest operative was seated on a chair, arms pulled taut behind his back. He was covered in dust, a freshly bleeding scratch along his cheek. There were other bruises and abrasions evident under the grime, but they looked older, probably from the earlier scuffle with Jenkins' men.

He looked surprised, a bit shell shocked, but very much alive.

Brow furrowed, he spit blood for a moment and then shook his head, as if to clear it. "Michael?" he asked hoarsely.

They were hardly home free, but it still warranted a smile as he approached, pocketing his gun. "You ready to get out of here?" he asked, pulling out his knife instead.

"You almost blew me up!" Rick said, still blinking a little dazedly. He head jerked, tracking Michael with some difficulty as he snaked around behind the chair.

Kneeling now, Michael didn't bother with the clasp of the tip-tie and slice clean through the plastic. Martinez's arms fell to his sides, and Michael moved back around in front. "Just making an entrance," he said. Up close, he gave Rick another appraising look. The younger man was still dazed – worse than Michael – and there was a nasty bruise on his hairline, probably from his capture. "You okay?"

Rick blinked again, trying to focus on Michael and only succeeding somewhat. "That depends," the kid said. "Did you suddenly get a twin brother?"

Michael frowned. "Is the double vision a new thing?"

"Well, I wasn't born with it," Rick said, words slurring a little.

Michael fought the urge to roll his eyes. Multiple blows to the head in a single day; even if Jenkins had tried to interrogate Rick, it was unlikely that he'd get anything from the kid in this condition. Which was good but also bad – concussions weren't as minor as TV and movies made them out to be. If Rick took enough hits, he could be bleeding in the brain.

Michael's ear popped and sound came flooding back. With that, he heard the shouts.

Focused again, Michael reached down, hoisting Rick by one arm. "Well, I hope you can stomach one more explosion," he said.

Rick made a half-drunken grunt. "You mean three wasn't enough?"

Michael guided Rick, half dragging him over the debris to the hallway. "I think there's been four," he said. "But I sort of lost count."

Rick snorted again, making a squawk of protest as Michael settled him on the ground.

The voices were louder now and Michael hissed at Rick, "Don't move!"

Martinez offered a meager reply, but Michael wasn't listening. Instead, he went back into the room, making his way to the window. The wires were easy to spot – which had been Jenkins' intention – and Michael figured they'd be easy to trip, too. The problem was, of course, how was he going to set off the bomb without catching the brunt of it.

Then again, the bomb's blast was probably targeted toward the outside. Not that there would be an interior repercussion, but if Michael ran and dove…

It wasn't like he had another option.

With that, he stood as far back as he could while he jimmied the window. It wasn't locked and it didn't take much. When Michael heard the click, he dove to the side as far as he could.

The blast was loud, rocking him violently. He hit the ground, fresh pain swelling through his body. He tasted blood in his mouth, but he rolled through it. On his back, he coughed, hacking his way back to awareness as the desert night invigorated his senses.

Blinking, he saw the gaping hold in the wall where the window used to be.

Which meant, it had worked.

There was no time to celebrate that victory; not with the sounds of yelling ever close.

He scrambled on his hands and knees, ignoring the sharp stones and plaster under him. By the time he got to the door, he managed to find his feet, half stumbling through the ruined doorway.

Outside, he nearly tripped, almost landing on someone when he fell.

Michael blinked, expecting it to be Rick.

He blinked again. It was Jenkins.

Bloody, with his eyes open. But not in death. He was alive.

Michael hadn't exactly counted on that, though he hadn't exactly thought about it at all. Incapacitation had been his singular goal, alive or dead had been superfluous.

But the fact that he was alive was relevant because if he was alive, then the mission might be salvaged.

Then all of this might not be for nothing. He might not have to beg for his job from Higgins or listen to Fay tell him _I told you so. _He might be able to get his men and his intel, the best of all worlds.

Without thinking any more, Michael reached down, pulling the man up. He groaned, and as Michael shifted the man over his shoulders, he felt fresh blood roll down his back from the gunshot wound in Jenkins' upper chest. It was not Michael's intention to be cruel – though he certainly wasn't opposed to causing the man pain – but he had other priorities.

Like Rick.

There was a sudden ping of gunfire and Michael suppressed a curse. At least while carting around Jenkins, he had built in defenses. Not that it was bullet proof, but it was something.

Rick was only a few paces away, still on the ground but half sprawled now. He was blinking, but slowly, mouth gaping a little as he clearly tried to get his bearings.

"Come on," Michael grunted, using his free hand and wrapping it around Martinez's wrist. "Up we go."

Rick made a sound of vague protest, but when Michael hefted him to his feet, he managed to stay standing.

"You good?" Michael asked, ducking down to look into his operative's face a little more clearly.

Rick looked at him; up close, the blood was more vivid against his dusty features. He nodded. "Yeah," he said, almost as if the answer surprised him.

There was yelling in the hallway now, and Michael made out the line of men taking position right as more gunfire hit the wall next to Rick.

"Good," Michael said, giving Rick a tug. "Then let's go."

He turned, pushing Rick in front of him. The younger man stumbled, but kept himself upright. Michael guided him, the weight straining on his shoulders, as they tripped over the rubble back into the room. From there, Rick seemed to understand, took a beeline to the destroyed wall into the night outside.

Once outside, the night air made Michael stop. He hesitated, looking in all directions, gauging his best course of action. Straight ahead, there was the fence line, the fastest out but without any sustainable means of long distance movement. On foot, with two injured men, Michael didn't like his odds.

To the right, he heard voices and movement.

So left.

Michael herded Rick, trying to push the pace even as his shoulders ached in protest. Rick fumbled as they rounded the corner.

The oncoming soldiers were so close that they didn't think to fire. The confusion was the moment Michael needed. Pulling his gun, he shot low. The men fell in a chorus of curses. Rick kept moving, and Michael didn't slow, eyes scanning the darkness for anything he could use.

The men weren't mobilizing; disparate groups were still packing, some converging on the compound. Michael had some time, then. They might now know what had happened, and that was what Michael needed.

Just a few more seconds.

Then, he saw the car.

One soldier, loading up the back. Engine idling.

It was across the yard, in clear view of several contingents.

It was a risk, and militants tended to be trigger happy. But Jenkins had trained these men; with so much information about procedure, there was a good chance these men had neglected the skill of improvisation.

This wasn't how Michael would plan it, but what the hell. At this point, he didn't have any other choices.

"Go, go," Michael said, shoving Rick forward.

Rick took a stuttering step, but soon they were running across the open space. They were halfway there when someone yelled. Almost a third when the gunfire started up again.

He could return fire, but he didn't want to waste the time. They were close – so close.

As they approached, the soldier at the car turned, shocked.

Michael moved in, using his gun to backhand him with force and he crumpled down. Opening the back, Michael herded Rick in, tossing Jenkins haphazardly in after him. "Watch him," Michael muttered, moving around to the driver's seat as fresh gunfire erupted.

The back window broke and Michael ducked as he got in. The engine roared as Michael shifted into gear, pressing down hard on the gas and directing the car as hard and fast as he could. Men scattered. The fence approached. In the back, Rick was yelping, Jenkins was groaning. Michael tightened his grip, ducked his head and drove.

This wasn't part of the plan, but it would work.

It had to work.

And then, the front of the car hit the fence. Metal clanged as the fence tumbled, hitting hard on top of the roof. There was the sound of grinding, a flicker of sparks, and the dark night welcomed them back into the open desert.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Shall we see if I finally give the boys a break? Then again, given my track record, I'm not sure that's likely…

PART TEN

-o-

This time, there was no free escape. In the previous escapes, Jenkins had retained his leverage. There had been no need to chase them, and Michael didn't doubt that the order to stay a search party was his and his alone. Jenkins was cold and calculating, but he wasn't blindly vindictive. He wasn't going to risk his men or exposure on flights of fancy that gained him no tactical advantage.

With a third round of destruction, Michael's team had stripped Jenkins of any position of power he might have imagined he'd had. Now it was clear that Michael represented a clear and ongoing risk, one that was not likely to diminish by an out of sight, out of mind mentality. There was no hostage anymore.

That wasn't true. There was a hostage this time, only Michael was holding him. Even if Jenkins would have seen this as the ideal time to cut his losses, he wasn't there to give the order since he was currently semiconscious in the back of Michael's stolen vehicle.

And apparently whoever was in charge now didn't want Michael to get away.

Michael had a head start, which was good, but it didn't mean a whole lot. In the mostly open terrain there are few places to hide, and with the remote location picking up the trail the car was leaving would be more than a little easy.

Worse, Rick probably needed medical help, and Billy did, too. If he didn't get back to the rendezvous point with Casey soon the older operative would be inclined to do something stupid, no matter what Michael had told him.

No, Michael had to make it back to the rendezvous, secure Rick and Billy with Casey, then lose the tails, transfer Jenkins to military custody and that would be that.

A simple, straightforward plan. Easy.

Michael jerked the wheel, mentally going over the terrain in his head. He needed to get back around to the front side of the compound but without attracting too much attention. If they'd set up a roadblock that way it would probably be a lost cause, but Michael had to try.

He hadn't come this far not to try.

Sand sprayed out and Michael heard Rick _oof _in the back.

"You okay back there?" he called, glancing in the rearview mirror. He could see the distant bobbing of lights and Rick's dark form unsteadily righting itself in the back.

"Now I know why Billy drives," Rick quipped.

Michael grinned. "Are you really mocking my driving skills?" he asked, turning the wheel hard again. The car careened, the wheels threatening to leave the ground from the sharp angle at this speed but Michael managed to keep it barely within his control.

Rick grimaced, face clearly paling even in the darkened interior of the car. "Not mocking," he said, voice stunted and strained but still clear. "Just commenting."

Michaels' expression twisted wryly as he eyed a route around a small formation of rocks. It would be good to distract the pursuing vehicles with and wouldn't impede his time too much. "How's Jenkins?" he asked, eyes darting between the back seat and the space ahead.

Rick was quiet for a moment. "Bleeding," he said. "Looks unconscious."

That was for the best. "And you sure you're okay?" Michael pressed.

Rick hesitated, just for a moment. It was nothing more than a split second, but it was enough. The kid wasn't as rehearsed as the rest of them. He was still too new, and it was never more painfully obvious than moments like this.

"Fine," Rick lied.

Michael steadied his gaze for a moment, pinning Rick knowingly.

Rick caved far too quickly. "Mostly," he said, hiding a grimace badly. He seemed to shudder, a small cough rippling through him.

"How about you stop trying to play brave and just give me the rundown on your injuries?" Michael asked. "I'd check you over myself, but I'm a little busy right now."

As if to prove his point, he had to swerve hard to avoid a rut in the ground and they all rocked forward as Michael careened around the side of the compound and veered back toward the road in the hopes of getting back to Casey and Billy before their tail caught up with them.

"Probable concussion," Rick reported first, starting with the obvious. "Ribs are sore, but I don't know if they're broken."

"You'd know," Michael replied grimly, choosing to stay to the side of the road, out of the lights as best he could.

"Sprained wrist," Rick continued. "And I've got a gash on my leg."

"Bleeding?" Michael pressed.

"I thought the word gash was pretty clear," Rick replied.

Michael rolled his eyes, pressing down on the gas, feeling his nerves spike as another pair of headlights joined the pursuit.

When he realized Rick was done, for a moment he was reassured.

But then he looked back and saw the kid again. Pale, bloody face. Perched on the seat, holding his side. "What else?" he demanded.

"Nothing visible," Rick said.

Michael shook his head curtly. "If you lie to me, I'll keep swerving until you tell it to me through tears."

"Really—"

Michael veered hard, sending them over the road and across to the other side. They all bounced and Rick yelped, even as Michael refused to slow down.

"Just banged up my side!" he exclaimed, almost breathless with the admission.

"In the latest explosion?" Michael asked.

Rick grunted, shaking his head. "Earlier, when Billy rammed the building," he said. "I went down under some rubble. It's gotten worse."

That was hours ago. Bruising took a while to set in and generally got more painful after the initial incident. So that could be normal, especially given what Martinez had been through today.

But Michael knew he wasn't that lucky. Because he wasn't lucky at all today, and whatever luck he had, he'd used up with the countless explosions and endless rescue operations. Any luck he'd had was Jenkins in the backseat and Rick still breathing.

So Rick had internal injuries. A slow bleed. That wasn't good but the kid was alive. They had to go to the hospital anyway for Billy—

Billy.

The thought of the ailing Scotsman made Michael press down on the gas harder. He decided any pretense of hiding his route was over. He had enough distance now, so he needed to get back to the rendezvous quickly. For Billy. For Rick. For this whole damn mission that just would. Not. End.

Rick seemed to recognize the shift in Michael's determination and braced himself accordingly. Michael's awareness tunneled, his focus a pinpoint as he mentally recreated the path, seeing every rock, every piece of brush.

Then, there. The rock. The foliage didn't quite hide the car but it came pretty damn close.

With the speed Michael was at, a quick stop was almost impossible. Still, he slammed on the breaks, turning the wheel as hard as he could to reduce his forward momentum. The car was out of control but not quite, and Michael reeled in the vicious tailspin with skill that only came from being flat out of the opportunity to fail. The engine wailed in protest, the structure shimmied, and then they came to an abrupt stop.

For a second, Michael couldn't move. He was trembling with the surge of adrenaline, heart racing in his ear. He could feel everything, sensations pricking his skin. Rick was panting in the back, Jenkins taking labored pulls for air.

Then, the sound of a gun clicking as the ammunition falls into place, aimed right at his head.

-o-

At first, all Michael could see was the gun, poking out from the cracked door. Its aim was impeccable, and Michael knew that within a second, he could be dead and he'd never even hear the shot.

Which made him smile. Holding one hand up, he used the other to open the door. The gun followed him, pointed at his heart when he stepped into the night.

"Good to see you're on your game," Michael said.

Casey snorted, the gun dropping as he opened the door. "Good to see you actually got out in one piece this time," he said. "Rick?"

"In the back," Michael said. "Along with Jenkins."

Casey raised his eyebrows. "You got Jenkins?"

"No time to explain," Michael said, moving around to the back. He opened the door. Rick looked at him, and in the new found stillness it was clear to see that the kid was in shock. Gently, but efficiently, Michael helped him down, holding onto his arm as he led him across the ground toward Casey. "But Martinez needs medical attention. We've got possible internal injuries."

Casey didn't waste time, opening the back and guiding Rick on the other side. "Wonderful," he said, face pinched sourly.

Michael didn't indulge Casey's pessimism. "How's Billy?"

As Casey helped Rick climb into the bed, that question answered itself. Billy was still laid out, head propped up by the makeshift pillow. In the moonlight, his skin was translucent, lips parted as he took noisy breaths.

"He's going downhill," Casey reported tersely. "Fast."

That was an understatement. Billy looked half dead already.

"So we need to go," Casey said. "Should we transfer Jenkins?"

Michael took a breath, the reality of his next choice finally settling in. He shook his head. "No, I've got him."

Casey hesitated but retained his composure. "You'll follow?"

"No," Michael said. "You take Billy and Rick to the hospital."

There was obvious protest on Casey's face. "And what about you?" he asked in clear accusation.

Michael reined in his emotions, knowing that was what Casey needed. The older operative was keeping it together, but Michael could see how much of an effort it was. Casey looked frayed around the edges, his eyes a little bloodshot, hair just slightly unkempt. He was collected under most kinds of pressure, but being faced with injury or illness he could not treat left him impotent and frustrated.

In short, Casey was keeping it together, but barely. If he knew Casey – and after all these years, Michael _did _know Casey – the last hour had probably been spent singing show tunes under his breath. Or louder, probably hoping Billy would rouse to stop him.

Michael hated that. He hated that flicker of desperation in Casey's eyes as much as he hated the slur in Rick's voice or the white pallor of Billy's skin. These were his men, they were his responsibility. His plans made them; his plans broke them. He carried this burden, and it was heavier by the minute.

Yet, it wasn't his place to assuage all these things. Casey would recover his control when Billy and Rick were okay. Billy and Rick would be okay once they had medical attention. They could have medical attention once they lost their tail. They could lose their tail when Michael went on a wild goose chase and drew their attention.

The decision made, Michael refused to be apologetic. Instead, he nodded crisply. "I'll meet you there."

"Michael—" Casey said.

But Michael was already moving back to the car. As he climbed in the driver's seat, he utilized the only thing he had to cow Casey into compliance. "Rick and Billy, they're you're responsibility now," he said.

"Michael!" Casey said, the desperate tone in his voice drowned out by the sound of impending vehicles.

Michael slammed the door, throwing the car into gear. "I'm trusting you, Casey!"

He didn't slow down, didn't even see the look of blank protest on Casey's face as Michael sped past him, dust in his wake.

His stomach churned, but there was no time to regret now. He peeled out, away from Casey and the well hidden vehicle. He was in sight just in time to almost collide with an oncoming car, and they both had to swerve to avoid a direct hit.

When Michael regained control he righted the vehicle in the direction of the road, glancing in the rearview mirror. There were two cars now, side by side, both following after him. Michael pressed harder on the gas, taking the car away from his team.

Glancing in the mirror again, he made out Jenkins' form in the back. He was still breathing, the pained rise and fall of his shoulders visible in the darkness.

"It's just you and me now," he said, shaking his head as he kept himself centered. The engine roared and the lights danced in the mirror. "Just you and me."

-o-

It was all very noble. Leading the assailants away from his team was the obvious thing to do. What any good leader would be willing to sacrifice for his team. In theory, Michael had no regrets.

In practicality, Michael didn't have any regrets either. But as he drove off at breakneck speed, he was struck with the sudden realization that he wasn't entirely sure what the details of this new plan were.

The broad strokes were, of course, obvious. Distract pursuing vehicles; turn Jenkins over to American authorities; meet up with his team; end mission.

The details, however, were a bit harder to pin down. Because he had some weapons and a speeding vehicle, but he had foreign terrain in the dark with two enemy pursuers. He could hope to speed all the way toward the nearest American base, but with that kind of distance, his odds weren't good. Besides, if he got too close to civilians, there could be additional casualties and there was also a good chance that if he approached the US Army at full speed, he might end up a crater.

That would end the mission, all right, but it wouldn't quite lead to any additional intelligence. And really, despite his somewhat suicidal tendencies, Michael did not have a death wish, especially not after everything he'd gone through so far on this mission.

No, the only option was to somehow lose his tails.

Glancing in the mirror, he eyed them critically. They were keeping speed, one just hanging back from the other. He'd bet his paycheck that they were in some kind of communication. It probably wouldn't be long until they mounted some sort of offensive. Two vehicles against one – it wasn't bad odds, and with proper flushing procedures, it would be possible to force Michael to where they wanted him to go.

Such tactics were best against untrained drivers, though. Michael wasn't Billy, but he knew his way around a steering wheel. Any offensive could easily be turned back on them with a few careful moves.

He just had to wait.

He kept his speed steady, eyes darting between the road ahead and the rearview mirror. Jenkins was still immobile but breathing. He wondered if Casey had gotten to the hospital yet, if Rick was getting examined, if Billy was getting treatment.

Then, he saw it.

One of the vehicles lurched ahead, headlights dancing forward in the darkness. The car veered to the side, speeding up as it tried to come alongside Michael. The other vehicle edged up as well, but kept just a pace behind, cautious but aggressive.

Michael needed more than that.

Grimacing, he let the car pull up next to him. He saw a flicker of movement and the flash of a muzzle before a fresh barrage of gunshots pinged against the vehicle. Michael refused to flinch, but his automatic deceleration in speed probably looked defensive, which was entirely in Michael's favor.

As he dropped back, the car followed suit. Michael slowed just enough so the other car had to move to the side until both cars were flanking him.

This was the scenario he needed, this split second of uncertainty, of confusion before they regrouped.

And Michael turned the wheel.

The car hit against one of the other vehicles, not hard enough to spin them but enough for them to hear. The other driver swerved in obvious surprise but quickly righted the vehicle.

Michael's eyes narrowed, ready for the final push.

This time, he went the other direction, and the other car rocked.

In response, the first car veered toward him, harder than before, and the hit made Michael's car jimmy. In the back, Jenkins groaned.

At that, Michael smirked. "Let's see how well you trained them," he said, eyeing the two cars flanking him with growing certainty.

Aggressive following would mean that they would focus on crippling Michael's car. They would bat him back and forth until something gave. It was the surest and fastest way to end the chase.

It was also the greatest vulnerability yet.

Because the harder they veered, the less control they had.

The less control they had, the harder it would be to stop.

In general, Michael valued control over immediate results. Without control, the results may surprise you. Michael knew that now, better than ever. Sometimes, in fact, the results could entirely backfire.

It was a lesson he'd learned on this mission. And one he was about to pass on.

As the cars battered him, he held his breath. He bided his time, feeling out the hits. The force was substantial now, almost sending him from one car to the other. Just a little longer, a little longer…

One car veered hard and Michael hit the brakes.

The engine strained, brakes squealing in protest. The inertia threw him forward, his head rocking forward toward the windshield, cracking hard against the already damaged glass. Jenkins cried out and the dust from the ground billowed wildly around the car.

As the car skidded to a halt, Michael had to blink through the blood on his face to see the scene in front of him. It was hard to make out the dark cars – just a mess of bobbing tail lights – but the end result was clear enough.

The two cars had collided. The unexpected force had sent them spinning, setting off a series of ricochets. The momentum had sent one car into the air, flipping hard and rolling before settling on its side. The other car continued to spin, rocking violently, the front end mangled and off center and clearly totaled.

Heart thumping, Michael allowed himself a laugh. His head was throbbing, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter because Michael had a free pass now, and he could finish the mission. He could turn Jenkins in, go back to his team, and finally be done.

Moving the car forward again, he wiped at the blood flowing from his forehead. "And that," he said, feeling smug as he passed the wreckage and glanced back at Jenkins, "is how a plan really comes together."

-o-

From there, it was almost laughably easy. They were no more than a dozen miles from the nearest military base. Although he had no means of radioing before his arrival, a thorough search and a series of quick calls had readily confirmed Michael's story. Jenkins was transferred into custody and carted off to treatment while a medic made Michael sit down to look at the gash on his head.

While the young man treated him, the base commander found Michael, eyeing him gruffly. "I've been talking to your director," he said.

Michael tried to quirk his eyebrow but instantly regretted. He settled for a small shrug. "That was probably interesting," he ventured, uncertain up to what point Higgins would humor and defend him in this. The man genuinely disliked Michael, but it was hard to dislike his work, and this mission would be a boon if Higgins let it.

The man made a face, something akin to dislike. "Too many spooks lack the training to pull off military grade missions," he said. "I'll admit I was less than thrilled when you refused cooperation."

In Michael's foggy memory, the conversation with Fay about military cooperation resonated. Considering how close the mission had come to failing, he managed to feel somewhat sheepish. "I might have underestimated the enemy," he admitted.

The man snorted. "Not from where I'm standing," he said. "I don't think you realize just how well connected Jenkins is. What you uncovered – what you provided us – is a feat that we might have let gone unnoticed for years. We owe you a debt of gratitude."

It was high praise. Michael wasn't a spy for the praise, and truth be told, he never knew quite what to do with it when he got it. Considering that the commander hardly seemed like an effusive man, the entire thing made Michael downright uncomfortable. "Well," he fumbled as the kid pulled a stitch taut in his forehead, "I had some help."

A lot of help. Rick and Billy and Casey. And Fay and Higgins. And even Vaughan.

"The buck stops with the commanding officer," the man said. "For better or for worse." He lifted a grizzled eyebrow and stared at Michael hard. "In this case, for better. Well done."

With that, he walked away.

With that, the kid sat back and nodded. "Looks okay, sir," he said. "Can I get you anything for the pain?"

With that, Michael realized that the mission was over.

With that, Michael realized that the real mission – the one that mattered – was actually just beginning.

Jaw tight, he shook his head. "No," he said. "But I was wondering if you could arrange a transport."


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: The mission may be over, but the boys still aren't in the clear yet…

PART ELEVEN

-o-

It didn't take long for Michael to secure a transport. He offered to drive it himself, but was politely refused. Michael had assumed that it was all part of military protocol, but as he settled into the passenger seat, he realized there might be more to it than that.

Because he was exhausted. It was the early morning now, the sun lighting the sky in vibrant shades over the horizon. Michael couldn't quite recall when he had last slept, and the events of the last twenty-four hours were more than something of a blur. From that first botched meeting, to Vaughan's death, to all three rescue efforts – to say that the day had been long was an understatement of the most severe degree.

Michael was used to hard hours. He was used to tiresome work. He was used to bone weary exhaustion, the stress that builds and builds with no foreseeable outlet. But sitting there, not at the driver's seat for once, it was almost too much.

After all, how much had Michael almost lost? Rick and Billy and Casey. The mission itself.

He had to brace himself as his driver skirted potholes, holding one hand to his head, pressing around the numbed stitches and swallowing back the nausea in his stomach. He told himself that it was the head injury, the slight concussion. That was all.

Still, by the time they got to the hospital, Michael was more than a little relieved. He thanked his driver and ignored the obligatory reminder about debriefing and made his way inside.

Michael didn't speak much of the native language, but it didn't require nuanced translation to navigate a hospital. Michael had done this more than he wanted to remember, more than he ever let himself acknowledge. But it always came back to him, a well rehearsed part with lines he wished he had never memorized in the first place.

He had made his way to a waiting room and Casey was easy to find. Disheveled and clearly American, he stuck out like a sore thumb. It didn't help that he was restless, pacing back and forth, muttering under his breath.

When Michael approached, Casey didn't slow, didn't even look at him. Instead, he shook his head, brushing by Michael. "Did you take care of Jenkins?" he asked.

Michael regarded him with caution. "Turned him over to the military," he confirmed.

Casey still didn't visibly acknowledge Michael's presence. "We could have used them a lot earlier on this one," he said.

Michael watched Casey walk to the wall and turn before walking back again. His stomach churned. "Maybe," he relented.

It said something of Casey's state that he didn't pounce on Michael's admission. In fact, he still didn't look at Michael at all. "The loss of control might have been worth it," he continued.

"It could have made it worse," Michael countered.

At that, Casey stopped, his eyes landing on Michael's with a frightening stillness. Casey's looks were always intense and unyielding, but the uncertainty, the fear there now – it was downright unnerving. "You don't even know how bad it is," he replied flatly.

Michael didn't let the impact of those words show. He tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about Rick with internal injuries, Billy with advanced, untreated malaria. Instead, he held his head high, kept his voice even. "So?"

Casey's mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "Where would you like me to start?" he asked jadedly. "Maybe with Rick's invasive surgery to repair a ruptured spleen and a liver laceration? Or how about Billy's possibly brain damaging coma and borderline organ failure?"

Casey's words were chosen for their impact. There was no practical prognosis, just cherry picked details to make Casey's point.

Michael knew this. But he also knew the point Casey was making. The point Michael didn't want to face. Rick and Billy – they weren't okay. Not yet. This had been a possibility, Michael knew, but hearing it, knowing it was true—

Michael didn't know what to do with that.

Michael didn't know what to do at all.

The ferocity in Casey's eyes shifted from anger to something less and when he spoke, there was a hint of compassion even in his pointed tone. "So," he said, inclining his head purposefully, "what were you saying about control again?"

-o-

Control was something you had or you didn't. When Michael didn't, he had learned that faking it was a close second. Most people believed in a person who believed in himself, even if that belief was far from warranted.

This served him well in all situations in life. It also made him the right bastard he was.

Casey had divulged Billy's room number without too much prodding. He suspected that the older operative was partially relieved to not be responsible for the bedside vigil, and at least somewhat eager to make Michael face up to the consequences of his decision. He didn't quite blame Michael – they had spent too many years together in the field, come through too many close scrapes – but Casey's faith was always most tenuous when the team was on the line.

Michael could forgive that, would forgive it, once this was over. Casey had his coping mechanisms, and if they weren't healthy, they were at least effective.

Armed with that information, finding his way in was easy enough. He watched the halls carefully. The daytime was clearly available for visitors, but Michael wanted to avoid nurses and doctors for now if possible. It was true that they could provide critical information, but they might also_ want_critical information, and Michael was in no mood to negotiate delicate answers at the moment.

So he lingered in the hall, watching the nurse's station, seeing the rotation. Watched a doctor make his rounds, watched the nurse check charts. When one came out of Billy's room, shuffling off to the next patient, Michael seized his moment and ducked inside.

His successful infiltration without being noticed was enough of an accomplishment that he was already inside the room before he remembered the severity of Billy's condition at all.

The room was small and private, which Michael attributed to the criticality of the ward. It was cluttered with equipment, the machines alive and buzzing.

Billy, by contrast, looked small and lifeless. He was laid out on his back, hastily half covered with an over starched sheet. He was attached to leads, which strung back toward the machines, with an IV in his arm and a central line running out from his ill-fitting hospital gown.

The sheer amount of medical intervention was the first realization. Medication, saline, heart rate, temperature: the myriad of devices were easy enough to sort out but hard enough to accept. And then there was Billy himself.

In the light, the Scot was almost garish, the dark stubble only accentuating his colorless skin. His cheekbones were flushed with red, and sweat still beaded across his forehead. His eyes were closed, mouth open, and his chest rose and fell in short, strained breaths.

Uncomfortable, Michael needed some sort of recourse. Picking up Billy's chart was as much for information as it was to retain some semblance of control. Michael had some skill with doctor shorthand, but the language barrier did present some challenges. He skipped over the presenting symptoms and looked straight at the course of treatment.

The prescription for artesunate was a bit unexpected. It was a term he recognized only loosely, listed in an agency packet about treatment options for severe cases. It was coupled with saline to promote overall fluids and a fever reducer to tackle Billy's fever.

From the chart, Michael glanced toward Billy and reconciled the information. It wasn't news – Billy's quick downward spiral and the time they'd delayed treatment had been hard to ignore – but it still felt stark knowing the clinical diagnosis was probably as much a worst case scenario as Michael had thought. Still, it gave new weight to the listlessness of Billy's body, to the tremor from the fever. Billy was sick – Billy was really sick.

Glancing back down, Michael made reference to the blood work, seeing that a fresh batch of blood had just been drawn. Billy's fever hadn't fluctuated much, just enough to inch a few points higher since his admission. He could only surmise the rest. Billy had likely undergone another fit of fever pitches and chills, although he seemed to be resting now. No official diagnosis was made – not without two rounds of blood tests, anyway – but it was clear that the doctors knew what they were fighting.

Michael put the chart down, jaw set as he looked at Billy. Being right usually made him feel good, but in this case, it did nothing for him.

Being right meant that Billy was fighting for his life. While Michael plotted and planned and executed, Billy was waging a war on the most fundamental level. He had put everything aside for Michael's mission, had ignored his body's most basic instincts to do his part, and now that they had succeeded Michael had to admit that it didn't feel like success.

Michael had controlled everything, including prolonging Billy's time untreated and forcing him to the hospital, and for what? To realize he wasn't in control at all?

In truth, he wasn't sure what he'd expected coming back. Returning had been the only option, but he had never allowed himself to consider exactly what he was coming back to. Or more, what he thought he could do to change it. Michael was a CIA operative. A damn good one, but that was it.

He could control missions and protocol, but he couldn't control illness and injury. He could tell people what to do but couldn't make them survive. He could capture enemies and still lose friends.

Michael had controlled everything he could but now he had to face the fact that it wasn't enough.

He wasn't enough.

Standing there, Billy was fighting for his life, and Michael just wasn't even_ close _to enough.

-o-

Michael wasn't in trouble and the chances of him being followed were slim. Though a good portion of Jenkins' outfit was still alive, they were undoubtedly scared and uncertain. If Sunday survived, his leadership techniques would undoubtedly be questioned. Some sort of counterstrike might be expected, but Michael knew the man lacked the skills, foresight, and stamina to find the ODS after all the chaos they'd left in their wake.

Still, the idea of conversing with medical authorities made him uncomfortable.

Or maybe just watching Billy sleep, languishing with the fever, made him uncomfortable.

Either way, he watched the clock carefully, leaning close to Billy and promising to be back soon, before scuttling out just ahead of the nurse. Carefully blending in with the people in the hallways, Michael navigated his way back to the waiting room.

Casey was still there, but he was seated now. His knee was jiggling, though, and he shifted in his seat intermittently, eyes glued on the clock on the wall. To the outsider, he would still look like a mess, but Michael knew this was an improvement. He was back in control of at least some of his fear.

As Michael approached, he found that to be at least partially true. Casey had controlled his fear because he had channeled it to anger. This was to be expected when it came to Casey, but usually that anger could be directed toward the mission.

Now that the mission was over, Casey had no other recourse and seemed intent on directing it at Michael.

He leveled Michael with a glare, his eyes narrowing progressively as Michael approached. When Michael sat down in the chair next to him, Casey's entire body went rigid and there was venom in his voice when he spoke. "So?" he asked, the words sharp.

Michael exhaled deeply and tried to relax. But no matter what he did, he could still feel the tension building in his shoulders, pounding behind his bandaged head. "So he's not been conscious?" Michael asked, purposefully skirting the obvious malice.

"That's why it's called a coma," Casey replied. "That's what happens to people with a severe strain of malaria that goes untreated."

There was ample truth to that, so Michael didn't deny it. "Billy's come through worse."

Casey scoffed. "And that's supposed to make me feel better?" he asked. "After writing bad poetry, Billy's favorite hobby is taking one for the proverbial team. You're talking about the man who's lost count of how many times he's been shot, so the fact that he's been through worse isn't much consolation."

Eight, Michael thought reflexively. In the six years Billy's been with the ODS, he had been shot eight times. Michael had mentally logged all those instances – eight bullets in four incidences – ranking them from least serious – the through and through in his shoulder in Peru – to the worst – the three bullets to the torso in Cambodia, the time Billy's heart stopped three times before he came back to them for good.

These were the things Michael remembered. He had to remember. It was his job to understand his failures and successes, and the well being of his team was catalogued among the most important of variables. Billy had been shot eight times, though he'd suspected the Scot had probably had a few instances before joining that he'd just never shared, and Michael had never asked.

Still, if it wasn't much consolation, it was a fact. Consolation was an emotion. Facts were workable tools, especially when it came to Casey.

"You really ready to write Collins off so quickly?" Michael asked, arching one eyebrow critically. It was a little cruel, maybe, but necessary.

Casey's face hardened. He shook his head. "Don't you dare," he said, voice low and seething now. "Don't think I can't see your attempts to use reverse psychology on me."

Michael didn't deny it. Instead, he shrugged coolly. "It's just logic," he said. "Either you believe in Billy to do this, or you don't."

"He's in a coma," Casey replied, words purposeful and even. "He has a fever that is threatening to shut down his body. His entire respiratory system may stop working from the strain. His kidneys will shut down. His body is so infected with the parasite that it doesn't matter how strong Billy is. It may be too late."

Casey was right about all of it, and Michael had thought the same thing from the moment he realized Billy had malaria back in the mission.

But it didn't matter.

It couldn't matter.

He shook his head, undaunted. "Plans that expect failure, incur failure," he said flatly. "Frankly, I expected better from you."

Michael didn't mean it – couldn't mean it – but he had to say it. Because Casey needed to turn his anger into rage, turn his frustration into belief. He could hate Michael with due cause or he could lobby on his friends' behalves. Michael knew which was better for Casey, better for Rick and Billy, better for all of them.

And really, Michael hadn't earned the title "right bastard" for nothing.

Casey's emotions wavered. The anger swelled to hatred, simmering so hot that for a moment Michael worried he'd pushed him too far, that Casey might snap at him and try to kill him. Michael would put up no defense – not that he could, if he wanted to – and trusted Casey to bring it back. Trusted himself to know his friend well enough.

Casey's mouth twitched, his eyes gleaming. Then, a moment passed. Self-awareness flickered in Casey's face and the calm started from his limbs and works its way to his core. After a moment, he was steadily composed. It was a nuanced change – visible only in his newfound stillness and control – and now when his eyes narrowed at Michael, it was entirely skeptical. "I still know what you're doing," he said. "And I still hate you for it."

Michael nodded. "That's fine with me," he said. "Just don't forget who the enemy is. Billy and Rick – they don't need you to fight me."

"No, they'd both probably appreciate the clichéd cheerleader, saying rah-rah in their corner," Casey said, sounding both miserable and disgusted.

"The toughest task yet for the human weapon," Michael quipped.

Casey took a slow, measured breath. Then he settled back, just slightly. "I'm always up for a challenge," he said. After a moment, he looked at Michael again, adding, "If this doesn't work—"

Michael lifted his hand. "Then you can go after me all you want," he said. "I promise."

It was true, in a way. Casey wouldn't forgive him if something happened. Moreover, Michael doubted he'd forgive himself.

Really, Michael just hoped they wouldn't have to find out.

-o-

Given all that had gone in to getting to this point, Michael should have relished the time to sit and recuperate so he could plan his next move. However, a hospital waiting room was never something he relished.

Still, he wasn't one to let time go to waste, not that he could turn off his brain anyway.

There were still several major issues to contend with, the least important of which was correspondence with Langley. Michael had delivered Jenkins and been roughly debriefed but he knew there was plenty more to come after that. There was paperwork for the mission, paperwork for the arrest, paperwork for the damage incurred on Nigerian soil. Paperwork for the lapse of communication starting yesterday morning and lasting well over twenty-four hours.

Fay would be nervous by now, probably calling all her contacts to see what she could find out. It was likely that she knew they'd gotten Jenkins, but the absence of communication would lead her to assume the worst.

It was something to consider, Fay alone in her office, eating from her new trove of snacks. (He'd found it, no more than a day after she'd moved it. She wanted him to believe she'd given up chocolate, but the bag of Hershey Kisses was in the bottom drawer of her filing cabinet, behind mission reports from the year they were married.) She'd be putting on appearances as best she could, which also meant she wouldn't be leaving her office often. She'd pretend not to stare at the phone and would not let herself be breathless when she answered purposefully on the second ring.

Knowing her, she probably had already contacted the local hospitals and ran their aliases. She'd know that Michael was alive, that Rick and Billy were hurt, but she'd want to hear it from him. She hated him, but mostly because she couldn't hate him at all.

For that, he knew he should call her.

But for as much as Fay wanted to know he was alive, she would also have Higgins breathing down her neck, looking for an update. Higgins had a lot of bluster when it came to the ODS, and Michael didn't doubt that the man would take any incident he could to break up the team. Not necessarily fire them, but to reassign them, as if he could retain their unparalleled skills and increase his control that way.

As a team leader, Michael had a certain appreciation for that. And more desire to subvert it. Playing nice with Higgins was a tentative balance, and Michael was far too aware of how any concession was a slow abdication of power.

Ultimately, though, Michael just wasn't ready to talk about the mission. He couldn't talk about intel or strategic gains. He couldn't outline remaining leads or chart potential caveats. Not while two of his men were still in the hospital.

That meant Higgins had to wait. Which, in turn, meant Fay had to wait. The calculation was simple and necessary, as far as Michael was concerned.

The next calculations were much harder. With two men down, the primary objective was to get them back up. Fortunately, between Casey and himself, they were evenly matched. Still, factoring in sleep and rest, Michael knew they'd have to pay attention to the projected recovery schedules of their felled teammates to ensure that there was no chance of them waking alone.

This would take its toll on Casey, even if the other man refused to admit it. The truth was, however, that now was the best time to prepare for the difficult times ahead. It didn't feel good to consider leaving now, but when Billy and Rick started making turns for the better, Michael and Casey would be on call 24/7.

(Michael made another aside to himself: remember to coerce staff into waiving normal visiting hours.)

Furtively, Michael looked toward Casey. The man had taken to humming under his breath, tapping his foot on the ground. He was intent and focused. No doubt, he would not take a suggestion to go get a hotel room well. It did not escape Michael's sense of irony that after everything he'd been through_ this _was what really gave him pause.

As he contemplated his approach, however, the choice became superfluous.

Because the doctor in the doorway was squinting at the chart, trying to move her mouth around the clearly foreign letters in Rick's alias.

"That's us," Michael said, on his feet quickly, but Casey beat him there.

The doctor regarded them, and Michael tried not to look at the tired circles under her eyes, the flecks of blood on her scrubs. "Maybe it is best if you please come with me."

Somehow Michael doubted that, but he didn't really have any room to contradict so he followed her in step with Casey.

-o-

The doctor brought them to another room, smaller this time, but with a pair of couches and a cozy chair. The doctor held out her hand and Michael found himself sitting. Casey folded himself into the opposite couch with an air of stiff defiance as the doctor seated herself in the chair.

Michael had already surmised that Rick was alive. The doctor was smiling. True, it was forced, but she wouldn't have put on the pretense unless there was at least something good to report.

Then again, given the tightness around her eyes, maybe "good" was a relative term.

"First, let me assure you that your friend came through the surgery and is now resting in a recovery room," she said, smoothing one hand down her pant leg and glancing at the chart in her hand. "We were able to save the spleen and the liver, though the amount of blood in the abdominal cavity was extreme."

Michael reminded himself that this was expected. Casey had told him as much and Michael had deduced it before he'd arrived. With that many explosions and collisions in a day, no one was going to get out unscathed and there was no telling what the guards had done to Rick during his incarceration.

In truth, Rick was lucky to be alive.

Still, Michael didn't feel very lucky.

He smiled blandly at the doctor. "If that's first, what's second?"

She looked at Michael, assessing him. It seemed as though she wasn't sure what to make of him, how serious to take him. If he was just another schlep in a waiting room or somebody who knew what he was talking about.

Those two things, of course, weren't mutually exclusive, but Michael would play the latter to the hilt to leverage the intel and standing he wanted.

With another breath, she continued. "While we believe we have the bleeding under control, the time he went without treatment created another problem entirely."

"Infection," Casey surmised from the other couch.

Her expression registered vague surprise. "It is not uncommon in such bleeds. The internal tears allow infectious bodies to spread and proliferate. We are fighting it aggressively at this time."

But it may not be enough. She didn't say that, but she didn't have to. Not to Michael and not to Casey. You could stitch organs together, replenish blood supplies, and ply a patient with antibiotics, but that was never a guarantee.

No guarantees; no control.

Michael shifted in his seat, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

"We will have to see how he responds to treatment before making any definitive prognoses," she explained.

In short, he was alive, but he could still die. He could still die and there was really nothing they could do about it.

Casey's mouth went flat, eyes dead. "And people still extol the virtues of modern medicine," he said, getting to his feet. "Quaint. Now, if you'll excuse me." He didn't look back as he went out the door. He didn't explain, but Michael knew he was looking for the closest thing to break, and Michael could only hope it wasn't someone's hand.

That was how Casey coped. Or didn't cope, Michael wasn't entirely sure. Pacing and singing and getting pissed off and hurting things. Because if something else hurt, that meant Casey didn't have to. Denial wasn't just a river in Egypt, it was an ODS way of life.

Billy played his denial in a different way, with jokes and smiles and stories. He seemed to think if he laughed hard enough, his pain would disappear. It didn't work for Michael, but it seemed to work for Billy.

Except Billy was in a coma. He wouldn't tell any jokes to ease the tension because he was half dead from malaria.

Michael didn't quite manage a smile this time. He didn't get angry and he didn't joke. And he didn't hope in senseless things. He simply believed in his own ability to make a difference, to do the right thing. Nodding, he let that compose him. "Can I see him?"

The doctor seemed vaguely concerned about Casey's departure, but she shrugged. "I can have one of the nurses take you there."

This time, Michael did make the smile appear. He nodded congenially. "Thank you," he said, and he meant it. "For getting him this far."

And now, as long as Michael was able he would take it from here.

-o-

Balancing the needs during a mission was something similar to juggling. All the elements were continuously in play but it required finesse to know which ball to catch and which one to send flying.

Or something. Michael wasn't great with metaphors – figurative language was always Billy's forte – but the point was that Michael couldn't focus on everything at once. He'd already put communication with Langley at the bottom of his list.

Billy was still important, but Michael had checked on him and found himself woefully incapable of doing much. Casey was a more pressing concern – his disappearance was probably for the best, but still left a few lingering doubts.

But it was Rick who he needed to prioritize now. Out of surgery, a long road of recovery ahead: Michael needed to see his newest operative, to assess, to reassure, and to resituate.

Michael smiled politely as the nurse explained a few things in broken English. He was too busy discretely checking the halls to give her much attention. Still, he thanked her as she left.

Then, he saw Rick.

Like Billy, Rick lay surrounded by machines. The heart monitor was beeping steadily, while the nearby ventilator whirred rhythmically. Beneath it all, Rick was still. His face was grayish but the telltale signs of infection burned in his cheeks.

It was all too familiar. The same stillness, the same hold of fever: Billy's malaria had warranted a good deal of his attention so far on this mission but it seemed like Rick was set on giving the Scot a run for his money.

He sighed, lingering awkwardly. "There are better ways to prove your place on this team," he said. "I know you look up to us, but trying to outdo us in the injury department is really not recommended. And that's one thing I think even Casey and Billy would agree on."

If Casey and Billy were here, at any rate. Casey was off venting his anger and Billy was fighting malaria two floors up. But Rick didn't need to know that.

Rick just needed to get better.

Michael hadn't planned on having a fourth operative. Replacing Simms meant that Simms really was gone. The ODS was better as a four person operation, but after losing a man in the field, Michael had been more than happy to keep the two remaining operatives he had close, just to be safe. More men in the field meant more men to lose, which was why Michael hadn't subverted Higgins' tactic to keep them understaffed.

Now, standing here, he was reminded why. He was reminded of what it felt like to be responsible for someone and to see them suffer. He remembered the long, slow process of letting Carson go. It had nearly killed him – had destroyed his marriage, for sure – and he didn't think he could do it again. Not with Rick.

Rick was still the best of them. He still had that spark, that unqualified innocence. He believed in things greater than himself. He made them whole. The ODS was functional without Rick – indeed, sometimes they had been more effective, so worn together that planning and communication had been secondary concerns – but Rick helped them do their jobs better.

Michael wasn't one to admit that, though. He had given the kid nothing but a hard time because that was how spies learned. And if Michael showed no affection, then he didn't have to show fear for losing him.

But he was afraid now. He understood why Casey had left – understood that burning, uncertain energy. There was no outlet for it. But Casey had the luxury of going off, Michael didn't. This was Michael's team and Michael's mission, and being here for Rick – this was Michael's job.

And for once, watching Rick fight for his life, Michael really hated his job.

-o-

Michael was still standing there when Casey came back. The self-professed human weapon didn't make a sound when he entered – just the faintest movement of air gave him away – but Michael knew he was there. Still, he didn't turn, didn't look at the other man. He didn't need to, and Casey needed his space more than Michael needed some kind of visual confirmation that the other man was okay.

Silence lapsed, filled only with the sound of the machines keeping Rick alive. Michael had been watching them closely, examining the mechanism that released the air, the small variations in his heart rate as his fever held steady and pitched. The minute changes seemed important but had minimal bearing on the big picture. If there was something to do about it Michael would have acted. If there was something to say he would have spoken by now.

Finally, he took a breath, letting it out in a sigh. "You didn't hurt anyone, did you?"

Casey didn't flinch at the suddenness of Michael's voice. "As long as you don't consider a bathroom door anyone, then we're good."

The humor was dry, as was typical for Casey. Michael smiled wryly. "You know, that sounds suspiciously like worry," he said. "I thought worry would be right up there with grief – one of those pointless emotions."

It was said in jest but it was still true. Casey took it unflinchingly. "It is," he confirmed steadily. "Which is why I promptly channeled it to rage and purged its effect on my mind. I'm in complete control of my faculties now."

"Good," Michael replied, and he didn't doubt it. Casey had never failed him in this, and there was nothing in his stoic demeanor now to suggest otherwise. This time, he turned to look at his operative, trusting him to be ready for what he needed to ask next. "Because I need you to go get us a motel room."

For a moment, Casey merely blinked. "I'm going to assume you're joking."

Michael stood his ground, mindful of Rick still sedated on the hospital bed. "You heard Rick's condition. You've seen Billy. This will be a long recovery and if we both stay here, we're either going to get arrested or get sick ourselves. I'd prefer neither option, so we need a new home base."

The plain logic was hard to refute, and that should have appealed to Casey. Yet, Michael knew that despite appearances, Casey was not as unflustered as he wanted to be. The emotions were still there, running high, and even if Casey had a grip on them it was a tenuous grasp at best.

Casey finally blinked. "Then you go," he said, flat and to the point.

Michael was not surprised by the pointed turn. "I will later," he said.

"You've been through more on this mission than I have," Casey argued. "If anyone is going to leave, it should be you."

"This is still my mission," Michael said. "You're still my operative."

"Funny how you only pull rank when it's convenient," Casey told him, eyes narrowed.

"Most of the time it doesn't come up," he said. Then he let his face soften, just slightly. "I need you to do this for me."

"I've already done everything you've asked," Casey said.

This was true. Casey had done everything, supported him every step of the way. He'd gone into battle, pulled back in retreat, and waited in the wings all on Michael's command. Every choice he'd made before had been for the mission, for Billy, for Rick. This time, this decision, it was for Casey.

Casey was the human weapon, and if Michael was going to accept the weapon part, he was going to protect the human part just as much. Casey needed sleep. He needed rest and quiet. He would be angry about going – he would be downright irate at leaving Billy and Rick at a time like this – but he needed it.

It was Casey's turn. He could rant and rave; he could hit and hate. But he would get the rest he needed if it was the last thing Michael accomplished.

Casey assessed him. Then he seemed to sigh, eyes darting to Rick. "I know what you're doing," he said, glancing back toward Michael. "You think you can take care of me, just like you're trying to take care of them."

"I've asked too much of you already on this mission," Michael admitted.

"It hasn't cost me as much as the rest of you," he said. "Remember, this is my responsibility, too."

Michael couldn't dispute it. Casey's personal training had long reaching effects. Casey honed his skills not only for his own benefit, but to protect his team. He wouldn't admit it, but he considered himself their protector in battle. To see Billy and Casey go down on his watch wasn't an easy pill to swallow.

"You can only work within the confines of the game I lay out," Michael told him. "The buck stops with me."

Casey shook his head.

Michael shrugged. "If you want to disagree, then I'll let you handle the phone calls back to Higgins to explain what happened."

Casey scowled. "That's low."

"That's the ODS way," Michael quipped. "Anything to achieve the desired results."

"Fine," Casey relented. "I'll go. But I think it is a superfluous order."

"Noted," Michael said with a nod. "And ignored."

Casey rolled his eyes. Then his expression fell, eyes lingering on Rick again. "You'll let me know if something…?"

Michael nodded. "I'll watch them," he promised. "Both of them."

It sounded like more than it was, but it was enough. If it wasn't, Casey was still humoring because there were some things Casey understood, even when he didn't want to. Casey could be cold and calculating and clinical, but he was also a good man despite his best efforts to hide it.

"Okay," he said. "I'll be back in the morning."

"Bring coffee," Michael called after him. "We're going to need it."

Casey sighed and made his way out, the drag in his step discernible and likely not for show.

When the sound of his footsteps had faded, Michael moved closer to Rick's side. He looked at the bruises on the kid's face, the small cuts that hadn't been covered. "One down," he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. "So what do you say, Martinez, can we make it two?"


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: This one is just about done. One part left after this! So at least we know it can't get too much worse…right? I should really just apologize now…

PART TWELVE

-o-

Michael was still a creature of habit. As his routines continued to fail him, he simply created new ones.

Here, in a hospital in Africa, Michael memorized the path from Billy's room to Rick's. He timed his visits, letting them coincide with the end of nursing shifts to avoid as much interaction as possible. When he arrived, he checked the chart, read any changes or updates, and then settled down. He talked to Rick and Billy, tailoring his conversation to their own personal needs.

He told Rick about the mission, about when they'd get to go home, about being a hero all over again. He regaled Billy with tales of missions past, reliving the ODS' greatest hits and a few choices stories from Michael's early days with the Agency.

Between visits, he stopped at the bathroom. He washed his face and his hands, and alternated between coffee and water. Sometimes he snagged a bag of chips or a candy bar, perfecting his excuses for being around after hours whenever a nurse or doctor happened to stop him.

It was simple but effective. He gained free reign without even asking for it, and his proximity allowed him to keep tabs on both Rick and Billy. He checked his phone, just in case, but he ignored the calls from Fay and Higgins, noted with some pleasure that Casey had not called him to check in.

Billy's fever worsened through the night, leaving the Scot trembling and taut as sweat soaked his hair. His breathing was rough now, painful wheezes that puffed into the oxygen mask that the doctor added during his latest check. His diagnosis was confirmed some time later as malaria, but the prescribed treatment was not changed, even if it wasn't showing strong signs of working.

Rick's vitals fluctuated wildly, his fever rising and falling with the routine administration of his meds. He showed no signs of waking – and with the sedatives he was on, Michael knew that wouldn't happen soon anyway – and when the nurse checked his incision site, it was still seeping blood.

It was bad, Michael knew. Billy wasn't getting better and Rick wasn't recovering. It was bad and likely getting worse.

Still, Michael persisted. Circling the hospital, going from one room to the next. The routine was all he had.

It was everything he had left.

With so much he couldn't control, he could still control that.

Sitting by Rick, talking to Billy, he had to believe that still mattered.

-o-

When Casey came back, it had been exactly 24 hours. The timing was so precise, that Michael had no grounds to protest when Casey insisted that he take his turn. Tired, Michael acquiesced and made his way back to the motel.

When he got there he found it sparse and generic. He sprawled on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Time passed, but he couldn't sleep. He kept thinking about Rick's spleen and Billy's fever. He thought about Jenkins and the military and Vaughan.

After a few hours, he gave up, sitting on the edge of the bed just staring at the wall.

When he finally answered the phone, it was more habit than choice. He didn't look at the caller ID when he answered, "Hello?"

There was a small hesitation, a surprised inhale. "Michael?"

After days of calling him with no answer, it was clear that Fay hadn't actually expected him to pick up this time. It had been inevitable, probably, but Michael had a history of being stubborn about these kinds of things when he put his mind to it.

Still, the sound of her voice – worried and gentle – galvanized him. She was his tie back to the real world, to reality, and as soon as he heard her voice, the weight of his operations success and failure hit him head on. There was a reason he avoided phone calls in these situations; they made him vulnerable and overwhelmed, two emotions he preferred to not have if he had any choice in the matter.

"Fay," he said, because he didn't know what else to say. There was nothing else he could say without betraying more, without letting on just how tired, how weary, how desperate he was.

She fumbled for a second. "I, just. We've been worried," she said finally.

A lump formed in Michael's throat. He swallowed, but it didn't do any good. "I figured you heard from the military," he said. "We transferred Jenkins to their custody."

The facts were the easiest place to start. They were the official things that mattered, after all, even if they didn't matter right now at all.

"Yes," Fay said. "We've sent in a team to extract him. We're not sure if we can turn him, but we're hopeful that we can work backward now that we can confirm his identity and some of his associates."

This was the conversation they needed to have for the record, but it was also the one that both of them knew didn't matter.

"Well," Michael said, holding the phone to his ear and staring at the ceiling. "That's good."

"Michael," Fay started again, and her voice had that tone to it. Sympathetic and knowing. She was too compassionate to be smug. "Billy and Rick. We can't cut through the red tape to the details just yet, but I know their conditions are guarded."

Michael swallowed hard again, but the lump just got bigger. Of course Fay knew. Fay was smart and resourceful. She would pick up the name of the hospital from the transport Michael requested. She would easily be able to run their aliases through the system. She probably had been about a day away from deploying a secondary team to perform an on the ground assessment and effectively relieve Michael of his fledgling command.

She should have, at any rate. Michael was well overdue in checking in, and his AWOL status would be rubbing Higgins in all the wrong ways. The fact that she hadn't was because she was Fay and he was Michael.

There was no point in hiding anything now. No time for apologies. Just the truth. "Rick was injured in the operation," he reported, the words heavy. When he said them out loud, they just got heavier. "The infiltration got messy and Jenkins caught wind. Rick was held hostage before it was all said and done. He's been in surgery but they think they're ahead of the infection."

This was partly true. Michael was choosing the optimistic spin because the reality was far too hard to admit.

Fay took a measured breath over the line. The fact that she didn't challenge his sparse retelling was evidence of how much she still cared for him. "And Billy?"

"Came down with malaria before the mission was over," Michael said. "We tried to get him to a hospital as soon as we could but it didn't work out."

"It's a bad case then?" she prompted because she probably already knew. If it hadn't been bad, Michael would have called by now.

"One of the more aggressive strains," Michael confirmed. "But it's Billy. You know how he is."

"More lives than a cat," she demurred, the faintest hint of humor in her voice. The humor was small and it resounded awkwardly.

Michael closed his eyes, letting himself melt into the mattress. He didn't know what else to say. Didn't even know where to start.

She took another breath. "Michael," she began.

"It was a mess," he admitted finally, because he needed to say it. The words were there, the truths deep inside of him, screaming to get out. "I made a mess."

"It was a tough mission," Fay tried.

Michael shook his head. "I risked my team," he said. "And I almost lost them."

"But you didn't," Fay replied readily. "I know you. I know how you are. It wasn't your fault."

Michael's stomach clenched. He wanted to believe her. She was easy to believe, but he still knew better. He knew better because of Billy's fever and Rick's surgery. He opened his eyes again, staring back up into the darkness. "It was my mission."

"It was a mission for all of you," she said. "One you all studied, all came up with and all agreed on. A mission I provided intel for, that Higgins signed off on. You're not the only one on the hook for things, for better or worse, Michael. You're a good team leader, but that doesn't mean that this is all on you."

His lips twitched in a rueful smile. "You're still trying to tell me I'm not God, then?"

"I've been trying to tell you for years," she returned. "I should have cited it in our divorce papers, not that it would have made you pay any more attention."

"What if I need to be?" he asked, honestly now.

She sighed. "And that's why we're divorced," she said.

He closed his eyes again, clenching them shut against fresh burning.

"Michael," Fay continued, hesitating. "What about you? Are you okay?"

It was the kind of thing Fay would ask because she still cared about him. Because she was Fay and he was Michael and that would never change. Maybe there was a time when he would have told her the truth, when he would have admitted how scared he was, when he would have explained that he was barely holding it together and he didn't know what to do.

That time had passed, though. That time had been dissolved with their marriage, lost as they divided their assets. Maybe that time had never existed.

Either way, Michael shook his head. "I'm fine," he said, throat tight.

"Michael," she said again, her doubt clear now.

He swallowed with all he had. "I'll call you when I have an update," he said, shifting the conversation curtly. "Tell Higgins I'll start the report."

"Michael—"

He didn't let her finish. Didn't listen. Couldn't. Instead, he hung up the phone, holding it to his ear even as the silence resounded loudly. It was rude, perhaps, but Fay would understand. And even if she didn't, it was all Michael could do. When he couldn't do the things he wanted, he would do the things he could.

Lying on the bed, not sleeping, phone in hand, this was all he had left.

-o-

When he made it back to the hospital 24 hours later, Michael was not well rested. But he had showered, bandaged the graze on his arm, and eaten and those meager things were enough to put on the appearance of rejuvenation.

Not that Casey believed him. Then again, it wasn't like Casey was going to call him on it. For them, it was a careful balance of pretenses and reality. As long as one didn't impede the other, the tentative balance of unspoken facades was acceptable.

Besides, they had bigger things to worry about.

Michael heard the problem before he saw it. From down the hall, Casey's booming voice was readily discernible, though the litany of curses and condemnations was hard to sort through.

Motivated now, Michael eschewed his tiredness, jogging down the hall and bursting into Rick's room.

The scene was chaotic, with two nurses by Rick's bed tending the machines, which were beeping wildly. There was another nurse and the doctor standing purposefully in front of Casey, talking in loud, even tones even while the shorter man raged.

Casey looked like he had already flown off the handle, but Michael knew Casey. If Casey had truly lost control, people would be unconscious on the floor right now. As it was, the older man was at the end of his rope and Michael really didn't want to have to break him out of jail before this mission was over.

Instead, he scooted in purposefully, wedging his way between Casey and the doctor with as much finesse as he could muster.

"Easy, easy," he said.

Casey stiffened, but backed away when he recognized Michael. Michael glanced from him, to the doctor, who was flushed with obvious frustration.

"Someone care to tell me what's going on?" Michael prompted.

The doctor adjusted herself primly. On Michael's other side, Casey sneered. "This crackpot wants to take him back to surgery."

Michael had entered the fray with the intent of stopping it. Casey's pronouncement tested him on that. It twisted his gut, and Michael had to clench his jaw as he looked back at Martinez. The kid was pasty white as the nurse checked the leads on his chest. There was a new IV, one with blood, strung up alongside the others.

He was wavering on how to respond, because part of him wanted to attack just as much as Casey did. But he was the one in charge. Control was his responsibility.

Fortunately, the doctor had gathered her wits enough to take the lead. "As I was explaining to your friend here, I'm afraid that Mr. Rodriguez needs a second operation to stop a bleed in his stomach."

Michael wet his lips, searching for the calm he wasn't sure he had much left of. "Isn't that what the first surgery was for?"

"My point exactly," Casey muttered, voice deadly and body tense, but he kept his distance.

The doctor looked both wary and annoyed, and to her credit, she held her head high. "The repair work we completed earlier was extensive," she said. "In these cases, sometimes missing a bleeder is inevitable. Although not ideal, the sooner we go in to fix whatever lingering damage may persist, the sooner he can fully recover."

Michael's eyes narrowed out of reflex. Trust was not something he gave easily, and this doctor had not yet proved herself. The fact that she was admitting a failure did not endear her to him. "And how do I know you won't miss another one?"

She smiled, forced but polite. "You don't," she said. "But contrary to popular thought, doctors are mere humans. I will endeavor to do everything I can to stem the problem, but ultimately, I have my limitations. Unfortunately, your options are limited. Either we go in and fix the remaining bleed or your friend slowly dies while you watch with your indignation intact. The choice, of course, is yours."

The words weren't exactly malicious, but there was a hint of vengeance in her proud voice. She did not shy from eye contact and there was no apology in her eyes. She meant what she said, from the prognosis to her assessment. Michael understood the limitations of medicine, even if he didn't like them.

Next to him, Casey seethed. "What if we choose a doctor who actually knows how to operate right the first time," he muttered.

Michael edged in front of him, implicitly muting him. "You'll take care of him, then?"

The anger faded from her face. She nodded, resolute. "I will do my very best."

That was all she could offer, Michael knew. Really, it was all he could ask for.

Sighing, he looked at Rick again. The nurses had his monitors ready to transport now, watching their exchange with interest and uncertainty.

He nodded. "Okay," he agreed.

She nodded back, turning toward the nurses. She said something in the native language, and soon the wheels on Rick's bed were unlocked. Someone disconnected the ventilator, a nurse manually pumping the air from a bag instead.

As they passed, Michael watched Rick. Watched his lax body, his slack face. He would be okay after this. He had to.

Michael had to believe it.

Casey was tense next to him as the doctor looked back, nodding again.

The choice was made, even if there'd been no choice at all. Michael just had to hope that for once on this mission it would be good enough.

-o-

After the medical team escorted Rick out, Michael took a deep breath. Then another. The room was eerily quiet now, and he could hear his own heart pounding in his chest.

The doctor knew what to look for. This time, they'd fix Rick and he'd be okay.

Michael took another breath and kept himself very still as he searched himself for a new sense of calm.

Next to him, Casey had started pacing again. His movements were harsh and swift, choppy as he fidgeted with his hands, cutting a path across the now-empty room.

Michael remembered to breathe.

Casey seemed to twitch, shaking his head. "Doctors have an over inflated sense of ego," he muttered, the words filled with venom. "As if going to school for ten years and accruing three life times' worth of debt somehow makes them miracle workers."

It was a misdirection of anger, but Michael understood it. Casey wasn't mad at the doctor; he was mad at his own inability to do anything. It was the same thing Michael felt, the feeling he grappled with in the pit of his stomach.

Taking another breath, Michael found resolve in that. Because he couldn't control what happened with Rick. He couldn't control what happened with Billy. But he still had Casey.

He had to help Casey.

It almost hurt to let himself relax, the slackening of his posture going against all his instincts. But if he didn't combat Casey's tension with his own ease, then things could get out of control and Michael's hold was tenuous enough as it was.

"Rick was in multiple explosions and a handful of gunfights yesterday," Michael reminded him, trying to keep a shudder from running through him as he remembered each incident with vivid detail. "If you want a miracle, then look to the fact that he's alive at all, especially after being held captive by an enemy."

Casey shot him a glare but he didn't slow. He shook his head. "That doesn't change the fact that this so-called _hospital _botched the operation," he snapped.

"This so-called hospital is the only reason that Rick is alive right now," Michael said back. "Probably Billy, too. Unless, of course, you think you could have treated them both in the car."

Casey stiffened just slightly. He held his head high, indignant. "I've done everything you've asked on this mission," he said, stopping to look at Michael fully. His eyes were burning into Michael, the intensity so strong that it would have made a lesser man flinch. "I did _everything_, and now you're asking me to, what? Wait and be patient while doctors with questionable track records perform surgeries that should have been completed right the first time?"

"I'm asking you to wait," Michael returned flatly. "And trust."

Casey's face screwed up. "I haven't even seen copies of their medical degrees."

"Then trust me," Michael said without hesitating.

It was the right tact, and Casey visibly paled. Casey could be flippant and derogatory but he did respect Michael. Over the years, Michael had won that respect and held it by consistent performance in and out of the field.

It was the respect that Casey had extended him during every part of the mission, from the ambitious planning to the slipshod escape. Michael knew it was wearing thin – for both of them – but for now it was enough.

Casey's expression flickered, the hints of fear just visible in his eyes. "I don't even trust God," he said. "So what makes you so special?"

The question was as vulnerable as Casey could be. Or, at least, about as vulnerable as Michael had ever seen him. That _was _trust, without even saying it, and Michael wasn't going to fail that, not now.

Rallying his strength, Michael smiled. "I'm your team leader," he said. "And when have I ever left a plan unfinished?"

There were failed missions, of course, more than either of them wanted to tally, and neither of them would ever forget leaving North Africa without Carson. But the years spoke for themselves and they were still there.

And the fact was that they had to be strong for each other, because Rick and Billy would need them. Trust had to be earned or the entire thing would just fall apart.

Michael wasn't going to let that happen, and he refused to let Casey give in either.

Finally, Casey's shoulders slumped just slightly. He inclined his head in the ghost of a nod. "This would be a bad mission to start a new trend on," he said, muttering the words with disdain to hide his fear.

Michael couldn't quite smile, but his relief was palpable. "Do you want to camp out in the waiting room or check on Billy?"

Casey snorted. "Billy's insufferable," he said.

"He's unconscious," Michael reminded him. "And he likes your company."

"Because he likes to annoy me," Casey said.

"But he's unconscious," Michael said again.

Casey tweaked his eyebrows. "And you can't hear him thinking there? Alone in that room? He's even worse that way than normal," he said, shaking his head. "No, I'll take the waiting room, thank you very much."

It was humor, of course. An ODS default coping mechanism. When they had nothing else, they could always laugh like it didn't matter. Even when it did.

Especially then.

Michael laughed, but it made his chest ache. He nodded. "Okay, then," he said. "You wait and make sure we don't miss any updates. I'll check in with Billy – he'd want to know what was happening with Rick, anyway – and we'll reconvene in thirty minutes."

Casey checked his watch. "Make it forty-five," he said. He looked up and shrugged. "What? I think you'll find Billy can make people chatty even when comatose."

Michael grinned. "Forty-five, then," he said.

Casey nodded and walked out without further ado. Nothing had actually changed, but Michael knew that most of that was a matter of perspective. Waiting in a hospital was a passive activity; enacting another part of the mission was purpose.

Resolved, Michael felt more confident as he went back into the hall, making his way to Billy's room with the newfound confidence that he could do this after all.

-o-

Billy looked worse than Michael remembered. Memory was often an inconsistent guide, so in the long night at the hotel, he'd convinced himself that the half-dead image of Billy had been an exaggeration of exhaustion and fear.

Unfortunately, Michael wasn't catching any breaks this mission. As the adage went, everything that could go wrong, would go wrong and this mission was indisputable proof.

In all, it took every ounce of Michael's wavering courage to stand strong by Billy's bedside. The Scot seemed to be losing the fight, though. The flush in his cheeks sapping the rest of his color, leaving him almost gaunt as a result. A quick glance at Billy's chart confirmed what Michael should have suspected: the rounds of fever and chills were still pronounced, ravaging Billy's body. His breathing was compromised – which was why the oxygen mask was still on – and his kidneys were slowing down. Brain activity was minimal as the swelling increased, and the fever had taken Billy beyond delirium, straight into a deep coma.

The meds weren't working, although the doctors had not altered the regimen. The ones that had been added were to combat the symptoms, not the illness.

In short, they seemed to be trying to keep Billy alive long enough to give the parasite time to work through his body and hope for the best.

Hope. That was a funny sort of thing. Standing by Billy's side, with Rick in surgery and Casey pacing in the waiting room, Michael didn't feel hopeful at all.

Billy was all about appearances – he had been from day one. Smiling and affable, Billy had come to them making no note of the painfully redacted story that had been in his file. In the years since, Michael had seen nothing more than cracks in Billy's façade, small moments when he knew there was more there but didn't ask.

But here, Billy had no pretenses. He was stripped bare by the fever, lying vulnerable before him. Sure, Michael had seen Billy in the hospital before, and it was never easy. It was always something he glossed over in his memory because it was just too hard to take. Too hard to think about, to wonder what secrets Billy kept that Michael just never made himself ask.

As team leader, Michael probably should know. As a friend, Michael probably should have cared.

He'd always been afraid to tip the tentative balance, though. Michael needed control, and that meant that everyone had to play their parts. Billy was the charmer. There was no room for regret in the mission. From mission to mission, that was what Michael told himself. Billy could give himself up for the job and Michael promised to always bring him back home under the idea that maybe next time would be different.

Maybe next time they'd talk about the things that really mattered. Maybe next time Michael would tell Billy about how it felt to see the woman he loved date other people. Maybe next time Billy would talk about the betrayal he felt about being kicked out of his homeland, the despair he felt about never being able to go home.

Billy's persona in the field was everything. Here, Billy was just a man. Struggling just like the rest of them. He always seemed larger than life, but Michael knew that wasn't true. He was flesh and blood, felled by knives and bullets and illness.

Malaria. A treatable, preventable disease. Billy was dying from a treatable, preventable disease. Michael never saw that coming. He planned for everything, but he didn't count on malaria.

An uncontrolled variable. As dangerous as a loose cannon on the deck of a rocking ship. It was out of his hands now, and it nearly cost them the mission.

Still may cost them Billy.

Billy would laugh if he were awake. He would try to relieve the tension. Try to tell Michael it wasn't his fault. That was how Billy was. That was why the one promise Billy asked for was not to be saved at the expense of someone else.

They all wanted to be God, it seemed, just for different reasons and in different ways.

"At least I kept one promise," he said to Billy in the humming quiet. It was a grim pronouncement and Billy didn't flicker.

"Now wake up," Michael ordered, "so maybe I can keep another one."

-o-

Optimism was a tentative thing. Just like in the field, half the battles was just keeping up with appearances even in the face of growing and insurmountable odds. Michael had always been determined on this front, and such routines came to him by rote even if he had to maintain them by a deep force of will.

Besides, it wasn't so outlandish here. This was workable. Billy was holding his own; he could still come out on the other side. Rick's surgery would repair the damage; he would be as good as new. These weren't facts but the truth was malleable in Michael's world, the only thing absolute was his dogged determination that he would come out on top.

This conviction bolstered him, and he was holding his head high when he left Billy's room exactly forty-four minutes later. Navigating the halls took approximately forty seconds and when he came into the waiting room, he was right on time.

He took some pleasure in this punctual accomplishment. Then, he saw Casey.

Casey wasn't pacing, which might have been a good sign. But he also wasn't on the chair.

He was standing, ramrod straight, knees locked and neck rigid while he talked to a nurse.

It was shock, which might be expected given all they'd been through, but Casey Malick didn't do shock like a normal person. Most people would take the news stoically and then break down. Casey took the news stoically and then tended to explode. Last time, Casey had vandalized one of the restrooms. This time, Michael wasn't sure he'd be able to keep the man from lashing out at the nurse.

Intent on keeping his operative in check and his so-called mission recovery in order, he strode over, placing an easy hand on Casey's shoulder. Casey wasn't one for casual touch, so he would understand the meaning in Michael's contact: _Calm down; you're not alone. I've got this. _

He met the nurse's gaze, keeping his expression neutral. "Is there a problem?"

The nurse took a breath, eyeing Casey warily. "I just came with an update from the doctor," she explained.

"That's good, right?" Michael asked, still feeling the tension radiating off Casey. "The surgery should be what, half over?"

That was overly optimistic, and Michael knew it. Still, he wasn't prepared for the tremor in the nurse's face. "There's been a complication," she said, her English jagged but clear.

Michael swallowed. Casey didn't move, not even to breathe. "A complication," Michael repeated.

"There is new hemorrhaging," she said.

"I thought it was one bleeder," Michael said.

"So did the doctor," she said. "But when we got him back inside, there was evidence of continued bleeding from several stitched wounds. We think part of the problem was an oversensitivity to the anticoagulants and just the extent of the initial damage."

"But," Michael prompted, because he knew there was more.

"But it will take a while and the doctor wanted to prepare you for the possibility that he may have to lose his spleen before this is over," she said, finishing at a fast clip.

"You mean, if he survives at all," Casey said.

The nurse looked startled, but she didn't deny it.

It was true.

Michael's heart stuttered, his throat getting tight. "Is that what you mean to say?" he pressed, because he couldn't make assumptions on something like this. Not with Rick's life. He needed something concrete. He needed to _know. _

Her mouth trembled. "The doctor is very skilled at this type of surgery," she said, but it was hedging at best.

"Right, so you're here softening us up so when the doctor has to come out, I don't try to kill her again," Casey said, voice sharp and cutting, dry enough to incinerate the simple words.

"The surgical team is doing everything it can," she said, not really answering the questions anymore. "If you need anything while you wait…"

"We won't call you," Casey muttered.

Michael smiled tersely. "Thank you," he said, grabbing Casey by the arm and turning him away. He didn't look back as he pushed Casey down and glared at him. "You can't keep doing this."

"Keep doing what?" Casey snapped, looking far too defiant. "Face reality?"

"You're scared, and I get that," he said. "And I know usually you'd find someone to kill and right now we're hard up on options, but you can't do _this._"

This time, Casey didn't back down. He held Michael's gaze and shook his head. "Your platitudes are well done, but ultimately meaningless. You may have a God complex that rivals my own, but you're not God," he said. "Know the difference."

It was true, but the plainness of it nearly took Michael's breath away. His stomach roiled, his chest clenching. He shook his head. "You don't get to pull this crap on me," he said. "Not now."

"So, what?" Casey challenged. "We wait until Rick's dead? And how's Billy doing? Because if you're God, then I have a few complaints."

Michael wasn't sure if he wanted to hit Casey or laugh at him or just walk away. Because Casey was a bastard when he was scared, he was a son of a bitch when things got tough. And Michael knew it wasn't without reason.

Casey was right, about the nurse and the doctor. Rick's complication was serious. Rick was some wide eyed, hopeful kid when he joined Michael's team, and Michael had tormented him and used him and now Rick might die because of Michael's plans. Rick's mother may get her son back in a box because Michael's plans failed.

And Billy – who joked and laughed and was always there – might not wake up. He might die under an alias in a land that wasn't his own and never go home at all. Billy wanted redemption, and Michael may have gotten him an early grave instead.

Michael knew these things. Michael knew.

But Michael didn't do impotence. He didn't do defeat. He _didn't. _

He shook his head, eyes unyielding as he stared at Casey. "It's going to be okay," he said, insisting now. "You'll see."

The voice over the intercom was just one of many, and it had been blathering all day. Michael had listened vaguely, listening for the words he could make out in the unfamiliar dialect. So why he heard it this time, he wasn't sure, but it was unmistakable.

The room number was the catch – after visiting Billy so many times, his room number was etched into his permanent recall – and his mind fumbled to translate the rest.

In front of him, Casey was doing the same.

The announcement repeated.

Then, Michael understood. Code blue.

There was a code blue in Billy's room.

Which meant—

Billy—

Casey's face twisted with dark vindication. "You were saying?"

Michael didn't have time to lecture him or reassure him. His stomach dropped and his head was light. Still, none of it mattered as he turned on his heel and ran.

-o-

Michael ran so fast, that when he finally reached Billy's room, he skidded, almost tripping over his own feet as he came to a stop. He was panting, heart thundering in his ears, eyes blinking rapidly as he took in the scene before him.

There were more people now, some Michael recognized, most only vaguely. Billy's regular nurse was by his head, lowering Billy's bed until he was lying flat. Another nurse had flung away the sheet covering Billy's body while a doctor cut up the front of Billy's generic hospital gown.

Billy was pale and lifeless, lips blue as a doctor moved around toward Billy's head, pulling his chin back and opening his mouth. Billy didn't resist, didn't even flinch while a tube was threaded through and then promptly taped into place.

The staff was speaking quickly, the words mostly gibberish to Michael, but the monitors told the story. Billy's blood pressure was plummeting and his temperature was spiking. Then, as a nurse started squeezing oxygen through the tube in his mouth, Billy's heart rate stuttered, peaking in an unsustainable v-tach.

Then, flat line.

Another doctor moved in close, standing tall over Billy, pressing down on his now exposed chest. The movements seemed violent – hard and vigorous – and Billy's entire body seemed to jerk with the motion. The doctor didn't slow and the nurse kept squeezing and Billy's face was slack and pale.  
_  
You're not God.  
_  
Billy was dying, and Michael wasn't God. Rick was having complications, and Michael wasn't God.

Michael's team was falling apart, and there was nothing Michael could do about it because _he wasn't God. _

He was human, just like the rest. Just like Billy and Rick and Casey. Just like Fay. Just like Vaughan and Jenkins and everyone else.

Human, devoid of control except in his mind.

He was fallible. Humans bled; humans got sick. Humans got scared. Humans died.

Michael was human.

Suddenly, it was too much. The stress and the fear and Rick and Billy, and Michael turned and made the only choice he had left and walked away.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: And finally, the end! I have to thank penless again, for her suggestion of the prompt and her beta and her general enthusiasm. It was such a pleasure to write this for her – and to share it with the rest of you :) So thanks to those who read and reviewed. It's been awesome!

PART THIRTEEN

-o-

Michael's eyes were open, unblinking. He could see the generic tile, the beige walls. Doctors and nurses and patients and worried family members. He skirted them, circumnavigating the halls. He wasn't sure where he was going, but he had to go.

He had to _go. _

He'd been too idle as it was. Back during the mission, letting things play out, letting Vaughan guide things, letting Jenkins call the shots. He'd stood by and done nothing when Vaughan had been murdered. He'd left Billy to die in the back of a van. He'd abandoned Rick to homegrown terrorists. For his inaction, good people had almost died.

For his inaction, the mission had almost been lost.

For his inaction.

There was a door, different than the rest. An exit. Michael pushed his way through.

The beige walls gave way to cinderblocks and the tile floors branched out into stairs. Up and down.

It didn't matter.

He went down, and realized it that wasn't inaction. Michael had always been acting. He'd been plotting and planning, prepping and organizing. He'd never been doing _nothing. _He just hadn't been doing anything that mattered.

Nothing he could do mattered now. He couldn't repair the bleed in Rick's spleen. He couldn't fight the parasites in Billy's body.

Michael _couldn't. _

At the next landing, Michael's breath caught and his knees went weak. He had to catch himself on the railing, propping himself up as best he could. He forced the air in and out, in and out, willing away the panicked feeling roiling in his stomach.

Rick might die. Billy might already be dead. Failure.

Michael had never really recovered from Simms and that time, there'd been no body. That time, he'd had Fay and Billy and Casey.

This time—

This time, the failure hit him like a suckerpunch and latched on like a leech. It was overtaking him, minute by minute.

Rick might die. Billy might already be dead.

The fear rose up with bile, turning to bitter anger. He lashed out, knuckles against the wall. The pain was sharp, reverberating in his hand and up his arm. It was his pain, though, pain he'd chosen. Pain he could control.

He struck the wall again, feeling the skin break and the blood well. He hit again and again, watching with pleasure as the blood smeared the wall. When his hand could no longer form a fist, he kicked with this foot, pain spiking through the sole of his foot but he didn't stop.

Frustrated, he used his hand again, letting the other join it. When bone finally broke audibly, the pain was too much and his knees gave out.

This time, he didn't try to stop himself. He crumpled, hitting the floor hard, hands limp at his sides.

He had nothing left to fight the sob that shook his body.

Rick might die and Billy could be dead and Michael was crying in a stairwell. Not God. Just a man.

Just a man.

And this time, it wasn't enough.

-o-

For once, Michael lost track of time. When he finally came back to his senses, his hands were throbbing and his head ached. He was stiff, and standing was something of an awkward trial.

Forward motion was even more difficult, and his stomach churned uneasily as he tried putting one foot in front of the other. A fresh myriad of pains lit up throughout his body, but Michael grit his teeth and kept moving.

Going up the stairs was a difficult prospect, but Michael wasn't one to shy away from necessary tasks – most of the time. He'd walked out of Billy's hospital room while he was crashing, walked away from the waiting room while Rick was experiencing complications, so walking up the damn stairs was really the least he could try to do.

On the right floor, Michael ducked through the door, keeping his head down and his hands tucked gingerly in his pockets. He slinked as quickly as he could toward the nearest bathroom and went inside.

He was relieved to find it empty. One of the stalls had a mangled door and an _Out of Order _sign. Michael ignored it and went to the sink.

Only then did he allow himself to look at his hands. The knuckles were bloody, skin split deep in some spots. The blood had smeared, running down the back of his hand and through his fingers, staining the cuff of his shirt red. With care, he flexed his fingers, feeling the painful strain and mentally checking for breaks and fractures. Everything still moved, but the intensity of the pain in his right hand suggested that he'd probably fractured something. He would have to have that looked at…

Later. After…

Michael didn't want to think about it. Instead, he swallowed hard and turned on the water, carefully washing the blood away from the still-weeping abrasions. The water ran into the white basin in pink streams. He was mindful of the deeper cuts, wincing as the simple movements seemed to jar him down to the bone, but was thorough and unwavering in his task.

When the worst of the blood had been cleaned away Michael pulled some paper towels to start drying. It was a messy and slow job, blotting away more blood in the process, and he was trying to form makeshift bandages to hide the garish sight when the door opened.

Instinct had Michael protecting himself, body alert and hands covered, ready for enemy or wayward civilian alike. It only took him a second to realize that the presence was neither.

Casey lifted his eyebrows. There was a quiet moment between them, of equal analysis and reality. Michael was used to the one being in command of such situations, and he felt uncomfortably vulnerable when he realized the positions were reversed.

Finally, Casey seemed to collect himself, moving coolly inside and letting the door shut behind him. "Next time you have a fit of rage, you should consider the bathroom doors," he said, glancing purposefully toward the partially demolished stall. "Just as pleasurable to destroy and a lot less painful. Let me guess, a wall?"

Michael couldn't help but feel chagrined. He looked down at his hands meagerly. Blood was beginning to stain the paper towels and he winced. "In the stairwell," he confirmed.

Casey nodded. "Then you're going to need x-rays."

It struck Michael as funny. That, after everything, this was what he needed help with. He survived being undercover, survived explosions, survived failed rescues and successful rescues, and then he lost it in a stairwell and had no means left to put himself back together.

The harshness of it was bitter, and he wanted to laugh as much as he wanted to cry. Casey might not even know about Billy yet. Michael didn't even know about Billy. All Michael knew was that he'd just broken his hand because of his own helplessness and human fallibility.

"Well," Michael quipped, voice hoarse as he looked back up. "Like you said, I'm not God."

Casey's face went white, jaw working. For a moment, he looked chagrined but he took two even breaths before he composed himself and nodded. "That's probably for the best," he said. "Imagine a world created by Michael Dorset."

It was a thought. A world full of order and routines, of doubt and discernibility. A world without privacy, without hope, without inherent trust in greater mankind.

Casey moved closer, lifting Michael's hand and peeling away the paper towel. He made a face as he examined it. "Besides," he continued. "I'm told that God made the day in six days, by Himself. That's fine for God, though I'd have to question how well that's working out for Him in the long run."

Michael suppressed a grunt of pain while Casey dabbed at the blood, pulling apart the skin to see how deep the cuts were.

"But if this mission has taught me anything, it's that I may be able to attempt things alone," he said, feeling the bones in Michael's battered right hand, "but I really don't want to."

With that, Casey rewrapped the hand, more tightly this time. He secured a longer length of towel, tightening it over the top. Het let Michael's hand go and stepped back. Looking Michael squarely in the eyes, he shrugged. "I never would have made it this far without my team," he said with as much simple honesty as Casey was capable of. "Now, don't be stupid and let someone return the favor."

For a moment, Michael forgot how to move. Casey wasn't one for heart to hearts, but he also wasn't one to mince words. He wasn't one for platitudes, not even in times of crisis. What Casey said, Casey believed.

And Casey believed this.

Looking at his friend, that had never been more apparent. Casey was tired, worn with worry, and utterly sincere.

Michael swallowed with difficulty, and offered a weak smile. "If you keep talking like this, I'm going to have to file an irregularity report," he said. "Where's the Casey Malick I thought I knew?"

"He left his pride somewhere back in the desert when two of his teammates were lying half dead in the back of his car," Casey admitted. "We'll find it before we leave this country and finish this hell-bent mission."

"That sounds an awful lot like optimism for you," Michael said.

"Things change," Casey replied. "Besides, I just talked to Martinez's doctor. And he's out of surgery and doing much better. So it's less optimism and more realism."

Michael almost startled at the proclamation. "He's okay?"

"He's still drugged and ventilated, but his vitals are much better," Casey replied. "And, in case you were wondering, yes, Billy's still alive."

At Michael's look, Casey rolled his eyes.

"Of course I knew about that," he said. "After you didn't come back, the doctor talked to me about his little episode. It's still touch and go, but he's still fighting."

Rick was going to be okay. Billy was still alive.

It wasn't much, but it was something. Maybe it was everything. Because Michael could plot and plan, he could stick to his routines, but there was still one thing he was missing: hope.

When the rest failed him, he still had hope.

Resolved, Michael nodded. "Okay," he said.

Casey looked expectant.

Michael offered him a smile. "Let's go check on our team."

"That," Casey said, straightening with newfound energy, "is a plan I can agree with."

-o-

Michael let Casey wrap his hand – and technically they didn't steal the gauze, just appropriated it, and with the exorbitant cost of health care, surely the CIA was paying for this one way or another – before they went to check on Rick. They got there just as the nurse was putting him back in his room.

She smiled this time. "I'm very glad to see you both," she said.

"I can't say the feeling's mutual," Casey muttered.

Michael returned her smile anyway. "How is he?"

"Much improved," she reported. "Though really, you should ask him yourself."

Michael blinked, uncertain he'd heard correctly. "You mean?"

She nodded. "He's awake, though not for long," she said. "You may get a few minutes—"

That was all Michael needed to hear. Moving around her, Michael went into the room, Casey right on his heels. The last time Michael had been in here, Rick had been unconscious and ventilated, barely hanging onto life.

This time, he was still pale – face worn and weary – but awake.

He was awake.

Michael didn't know what to say. Next to him, Casey was clearly at a loss as well.

Then, Rick smiled, a wide, dopey grin. "Hey," he said, voice wispy and slurred. "I don't have a spleen."

Casey snorted. "That's nothing," he said. "I always figured the next phase of human evolution would do away with it anyway."

Rick kept grinning. "It seems like it should hurt more," he said.

Michael smirked back, moving closer. He put a hand on Rick's arm. "It will once you're off the good stuff," he said. "Trust me."

Rick blinked up at him innocently. "Did you lose yours?"

"About fifteen years ago," he said. "Haven't missed it."

Rick looked unduly serious, the earnestness in his brown eyes downright comical. "I never would have guessed," he said. "I thought you were a man with all your internal organs."

Michael nodded in true avuncular fashion. "Don't worry," he said. "You can't judge a book by its cover."

"Or a human by his internal organs, for that matter," Casey snarked, sliding in around Rick's other side.

Rick's eyes turned from Michael to Casey and back again. "I'm glad you're here," he said.

"I wish I could say the same," Casey said with a grimace. "But this hospital has the absolute worst food. I can barely find anything edible."

"I know," Rick said. "But you're here for me. I mean, I thought I was dying and you're here for me."

Michael's throat tightened just slightly. "You're going to be fine," he said.

"I know," Rick repeated with more passion this time. "Because you guys – you didn't leave me behind. You and you and Billy…" His voice trailed off, forehead wrinkling as he looked around meekly. "Where's Billy?"

Casey's posture stiffened and it was all Michael could do to keep his face neutral. "Just a little under the weather," he said to Rick.

Rick's eyes turned back to him, large and innocent and trusting.

Michael smiled, and paired his half-truth with the one fact that mattered. "So don't worry," he said. "I'm taking care of it."

Casey's eyes were on him, but he didn't disagree.

Rick swallowed a little, eyelids starting to droop. "Okay," he said, voice quiet but sure, evidence that trust could be earned. More than that, trust could be kept, contrary to all appearances. The lifeblood of any team in the field.

The thing they still had, that had never wavered.

"Just rest," Michael said, a soft, gentle order.

Rick's eyes fluttered and he quickly heeded, dropping back into unconsciousness as the drugs finally won out.

Michael stood for a moment, watching Martinez sleep. Across from him, Casey was watching him, careful and reserved. "That's quite the promise," he said.

Michael looked up. "You doubting me?"

"I just thought perhaps we'd learned a lesson or two about grandiose promises," Casey replied.

Michael inclined his head. "And I thought we learned a lot more about the things we really need to believe in."

Casey relented. "As long as you're sure."

"I'm sure," Michael said, resolute, leaving no room for argument. He looked at Rick again. "I'm very sure."

-o-

Michael's certainty wavered when he saw Billy again. Seeing Rick so much improved had buoyed his spirits, but as he made the short walk to Billy's room, the weight of the unknown besieged him. The last time he'd seen Billy, the other man had been technically dead. No matter what Casey told him had happened in the interim, the image was hard to scrub from his memory.

The thought of it, Billy colorless and still, the doctor pressing on his chest - he shuddered, rubbing his damaged knuckles self-consciously. The pain was sharp, but grounded him. Still, when he got to the room, he had to take a few sharp breaths to clear his throbbing head.

The good news was that Billy looked better, although having a heartbeat sort of guaranteed that.

Still, Billy looked bad. The scruff on his face was thicker, the dark hair pronounced against his milky complexion. The fever still burned in his cheeks, his hair dirty and sweaty as he lay prostrate in the bed.

This was mostly the same, but what made it worse was the ventilator in his mouth. The tape was still hastily plastered across his face, holding the tube in at a slight angle as the machine administered even puffs of air.

In all, this could be disconcerting – no, it was disconcerting. Michael's reaction was visceral, a deep nausea that swelled in his stomach and a dull ache that throbbed persistently in his head. The worry was gnawing, the impotence almost paralyzing.

But there was another side to the story. Billy was fighting – and fighting hard. Billy always scraped by, and to some, it might seem like luck, but to Michael it was always tenacity. Billy didn't know how to fail, even when he probably should just let go. Few spies could recreate a career after being disgraced in one agency, but Billy had. Billy had.

Billy was still alive, and that counted for a lot.

Michael was determined to believe that, all evidence to the contrary.

And his plans had to account for that, no matter what.

"So we're just waiting on you," he said, eyes still on Billy. "As long as it takes. We'll do this on your timetable."

The loss of control could be frightening, but if Michael trusted anyone it was his team.

Suddenly, a monitor triggered. Michael stiffened in surprise, preparing himself unconsciously for a repeat of earlier. He expected the heart monitor to spike erratically, but the machines kept whirring, a small alarm sounding again.

Michael frowned, trying his best to discern its source. A glance at the monitors shows that Billy's heart rate was steady and his oxygen levels were stable. His temperature had even dropped by a few points.

That suggested that Billy was getting better.

The alarm pinged again, and there was a small movement on the bed.

That meant Billy was waking up.

The alarm sounded again and Billy bucked this time, and Michael put it together. Billy was waking up and fighting the tube. It was an unpleasant thing to wake up intubated – Michael knew from experience – and Billy handled it well in the long run but the initial reaction was never anything short of panic.

With this in mind, Michael was barely able to move in time, positioning himself next to Billy's side and putting a gentle but restraining hand on the Scot's wrist. He was prepared when Billy's body twitched again, his arms trying to move up to dislodge the tube.

Billy's flailing intensified, just for a moment, before his eyes popped open, wide and searching before they settled on Michael.

The expression was almost heartbreakingly vulnerable, not that Michael would ever say that out loud. Still, the raw need in Billy's eyes made his own chest tight even as he smiled. "You're okay, Billy," he said, the words as much a promise as the truth. "You're going to be okay."

Billy held his gaze for a long moment before his head twitched in a nod. The tension slowly drained from his body as he relaxed against the tube. As he gave in, Michael saw his eyelids begin to droop but the inherent trust was always there even as Billy slipped back toward unconsciousness.

Michael stood there, watching Billy breathe. He breathed in tandem, in and out, feeling something like contentment spread heavily over his body. It was okay now. Not the way Michael had planned it but the ends would speak for themselves.

There was a noise behind him – a nurse, Michael realized, to check the machines – and Michael turned to tell her the good news but the movement dimmed his vision and his body went numb as he lost sensation altogether and the world just blinked out.

-o-

In a haze, Michael was on his back. There were voices, droning somewhere, words he couldn't understand.

Michael blinked, blinded by the bright lights. He blinked again and dark shapes moved across the light.

His ears were buzzing, his heart throbbing loudly. His hands and feet were tingling. He thought to move, but the determination in his mind never reached his limbs.

This was frustrating. It would probably be unnerving, but Michael was too busy being frustrated by his lack of control to be worried about it just yet.

Suddenly, a familiar face hovered above him. Casey's expression was terse, but the deep lines around his eyes suggested his weariness. "You're exhausted."

"I'm fine," Michael said, or tried to say. The words were thick and garbled because suddenly his tongue decided to stop working.

Casey's look turned vaguely bemused. "No, literally," he said, "you're exhausted. A combination of the longstanding head injuries and the fact that you haven't been eating or sleeping in who knows how long."

Michael frowned, but the movement made his headache ratchet up a notch. "I'm fine," he said again, more clearly this time.

Casey shook his head. "You will be after you've rested."

Michael put all his effort into moving, but the renewed attention didn't yield any superior results. "But Billy…Rick…"

"Are no longer your concern," Casey finished for him firmly.

Michael wanted to protest, but his tongue was almost too thick to move anymore.

Casey's expression softened, just slightly. "You've done all you can," he said. "Let the rest of us take a turn."

That went against Michael's instincts, but it seemed he didn't have any choice in the matter. Surrender wasn't so much a matter of volition as it was finally giving in, and the letting go was as terrifying as it was freeing before the blackness ascended and peace finally prevailed.

-o-

Usually, Michael's dreams were orderly affairs. They progressed in logical formation, punctuated by unrealistic fits and the occasional clown terrorist. His habits were so well ingrained that they permeated his subconscious, and he approached the dream world with as much simple scrutiny as he did anything else.

In this, the parameters were easy to define. His dreamscape was the desert, vast and barren, likely both a callback to the mission with Jenkins as well as a metaphor for the state of his life.

He was alone on the sands, lying on his back. Above him, the sky was endless and the grains slipped through his fingers as he tried to scoop it up, to hold it together.

Each grain was something different, something Michael recognized. There was his car and his desk at the office; his laptop and his closet of burn phones. And there was Fay and Higgins. Casey and Rick and Billy. The mission was there, too.

The pieces were distinctive but not equal. Some were bigger and some smaller, but all tiny in his hands. He shifted his grip, trying to hold them all. But the sands kept slipping out and the more he tried to hold them all, the more they slipped away.

Away and away and…  
_  
You may have a God complex, but you're not God. Know the difference.  
_  
Know the difference.

And for once, Michael thought maybe he did.

His hands went lax and the sands spilled, covering him and filling the desert, filling the world until there was nothing left at all.

-o-

Then, Michael woke up.

There was nothing dramatic about it. One second he was sleeping, the next his eyes were open. He took a breath, tilting his head.

He was in the hospital. This made sense, considering this was where he'd been when he'd passed out. The fact that he'd passed out explained the IV and the monitor and the hospital bed.

Michael was coherent enough to be aware of his body's aches. His head still hurt, but less now. His hand was a more pressing issue, and one look explained why. In place of Casey's makeshift bandage was a bulky cast.

The sight made Michael scowl.

"Consider it a reminder of why fighting walls is a less than amazing idea," Casey deadpanned at him.

Michael looked up, frowning. "Couldn't you have talked them into a cast that was less bulky?"

"Be grateful it's not pink," came another voice.

Surprised, Michael turned in his bed, seeing Rick in the nearby bed. The younger operative looked haggard but awake, propped up by the pillows in his bed.

"Casey thought we should get the pink to teach you a lesson," Rick said. "I told him that a mission where we almost all died was probably lesson enough."

"Technically, perhaps," Casey relented. "But it's not nearly as much fun."

The joking was something – probably something remarkable, Michael's rational brain thought – but he was too distracted to comment. Because Rick was awake. Rick was—

"You're okay," he said, looking at Rick with something akin to disbelief.

Rick gave him a look of amusement. "Isn't that what you promised me?"

"Yeah, but…" Michael started but didn't know how to finish.

Casey snorted. "Yeah, but those who think they're God think they can will things into existence by sheer insistence alone."

Michael shook his head. "No, I just – hoped."

"Well," Rick said, "it worked. Yesterday was rough but I'm feeling much better today."

A day, Michael noted. He'd been out for a day.

"Two days," Casey corrected him. He shrugged. "I had them keep you under a little longer because I figured it'd be the last rest you'd have for a while, given your stubborn disposition."

This probably bothered Michael but it was also probably expected. Michael had bigger concerns. "Billy?"

"Awake," Rick said, a grin tugging at his lips.

"And bitching about how he can't join the so-called party," Casey added.

"So he's-?"

"Okay," Casey said.

"We're all okay," Rick said.

"Contrary to all our best efforts, it seems," Casey said.

Michael couldn't help it: he laughed.

"Unless you're suffering from a nervous breakdown," Casey hedged.

Michael laughed again.

"Michael?" Rick prompted, a hint of concern in his voice. "Are you okay?"

Michael looked at him, looked at Casey. He nodded, still grinning. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I really think I am."

-o-

Waking up was the easy part, everything after that was more complicated. The good news was that Michael was still a creature of habit so falling back into old routines came easily enough. He started his paperwork in earnest, making now-frequent calls back to Langley, most of them to Fay.

His ex-wife had been as angry as she had been relieved, and she reamed him out for not keeping in contact, for not telling her everything. She had grounds to report his negligence, even grounds to have him visibly relieved of his duty by a supplementary agent, but she fielded their perilous mission reports to Higgins with care and consistency, and the fact that Higgins never demanded a debriefing during his hospital stay was a testament both to her sway and her concern.

Still, sometimes he thought he owed her, though he wasn't sure what for. On the phone, she didn't make him apologize and didn't make him admit where he'd been wrong.

"You can say it, you know," he told her finally.

"Say what?" she asked.

"I told you so," he said.

She hesitated. "For what?"

"About the mission," he said. "You said I was too afraid of losing control and that someday it would cost me more than I was ready to admit. That happened. I lost control on this mission. You were right."

The words weren't easy to say – emotions never were for him, much to Fay's continued frustration – but Michael was always able to admit when he was wrong.

He just wasn't wrong often.

Still, he'd been wrong to some degree. Not that he'd go back and do it differently, not that he knew how to make the mistakes go away. But just that sometimes holding control and having control weren't the same things. He would never willingly give up the former, but he had to accept the latter as an inevitable part of his life.

Fay took a breath and held it. "Yeah," she said. "I probably was."

"So why don't you say it?" he pressed, not to be cruel but because he really wanted to know.

"Because you're not the only one who wants to control things, Michael," she said. "You think I don't know what it's like to see the pieces on the board move without my control? It's not easy. Never has been."

The realization was sudden. He'd never considered it. Fay's job was to organize, to oversee. She created missions, approved them, fleshed them out. She figured out the details for the greater good, to bring in intelligence, to stop terrorism, to protect agents.

To protect the ODS. To protect Michael.

For all the good it did her.

Michael understood. Fay understood. A marriage might fail from two disparate personalities trying to make things work. It might also fail because both parties were holding on too hard and didn't know how to let go.

"Well," he said finally, "maybe there's a lesson we can both learn from this."

"Oh," she said. "What's that?"

"That maybe the best plans are the ones we plan together," he concluded.

She paused, and he could see her at her desk, fiddling with a curl in her free hand, a small smile on her lips. "You know," she agreed, "you may be right about that."

-o-

Michael was discharged, and Billy was moved into Michael's bed next to Rick. Rick was looking better and already flourishing with his PT while Billy slowly gained his strength back. Days turned to weeks, but they were getting better.

Physically.

The emotional scars always took longer, even if none of them liked to talk about it. Casey stayed nervous, hovering more than he'd admit. He didn't like to leave and looked for excuses to stay in the room, even when Rick and Billy were sleeping. When he finally did go back to the motel, Michael always heard him humming under his breath, tapping his fingers nervously on his hip as he tried his best to act like sticking around was just putting him out.

Billy was fighting exhaustion more often than not, but he tried to put on appearances when people were watching. And since he shared a room with Rick that was almost constant. Still, in the rare moments when Michael was alone with Billy, he could still see traces of the Scot's vulnerability. His body was weak, legs shaking when he stood and face still pale. He slept fitfully, no matter how tired he was.

Rick was doing better than the rest. His injuries were another reminder to him that seemed to solidify his determination to do his job better. He attacked his therapy with a nearly frightening tenacity, and Michael understood the response. The kid had been forced to recognize his weakness and instead of letting that frighten him, he decided to combat it, to never let it happen again. As if training and planning and an upbeat attitude had done the rest of them so much good.

No, there were lingering issues here, and as Michael resumed his daily routines, he recognized that he would have to deal with that sooner or later. He didn't want to push it – not with his team as fragile as they were – but the night before Billy and Rick were to be discharged, he knew he couldn't let it slide any longer, not without risking it becoming a permanent impairment to their functionality in the long term.

Michael had planned missions of all sizes to combat a wide range of dangerous enemies. But figuring out how to breech the topic of emotions with his team was the most daring mission he'd planned yet.

Ultimately, Michael decided that the direct approach was the best. Plans with the fewest frills had the fewest chances of complications. And Michael needed simple right now.

"So, I know what the official report is going to say," Michael began, "but I think we know it's more than that."

His team stopped – Billy had been trying to teach Rick a card game while Casey had been providing less than helpful commentary – and stared at him.

Michael didn't back down, even if he sort of wanted to. "I've officially stated that there were a series of less than ideal events that we couldn't control," he said. "That's only partly true, even if Higgins doesn't need to know it. But we need to know what went wrong before we go home so we don't let it happen again."

They talked about these things. Mission assessment was a necessary part of the job. Still, on the rough missions, it was often easier to focus on the victory, not what went wrong.

Easier but not better. Michael couldn't let it slide.

Casey shifted in his seat, sitting back and watching Michael skeptically. Rick blinked, wide eyed, fear suddenly apparent in his eyes.

For his part, Billy swallowed guiltily before he pursed his lips and took a breath. "I can't help but think that my illness provided far too much of a complication," he said.

Michael shook his head. "We can't plan against illness," he said. "Fay checked your records. You were up to date with vaccines. That really was nothing but back luck."

Billy seemed to accept that, inclining his head. But he took another breath and looked up with more determination. "The body's inevitable weaknesses are hard to protect against entirely," he agreed. His expression wavered for a moment as he seemed to focus on the mere act of air moving in and out. "But I allowed myself to operate for far too long under its debilitating effects. I thought I had no other option at the time, but my compromised decision-making led directly to the serious injury and ultimate capture of a fellow agent."

Rick squawked in protest. "That's not your fault."

Billy turned to him, quite serious. "I drove the car that probably caused a good portion of your internal bleeding," he said. "You nearly died because of my actions. That fault is mine and mine alone."

"I was running headlong into danger," Rick interjected insistently. "If you hadn't crashed the car, I probably would have gotten shot and died before any escape could have been made."

"It is my job to protect my teammates, not imperil them," Billy countered. "I should have done better at controlling my body's limitations."

It was Casey's turn to snort. "There is only so much control you can muster," he said. "And fighting malaria is no easy task. You have no blame what happened at the compound. When one member of the team is compromised by illness or injury, it is up to the rest to recognize the situation and compensate accordingly."

"Oh, and such standards are ones you abide by?" Billy asked, a tinge of petulance in his voice.

Casey's face was stoic. "According to my own limits, yes," he said. "And the fact is that I knew you were suffering from potentially debilitating effects and did not make the effort to protect you. Instead, I sat by idly and let you get worse. I essentially watched as you fought for your life and didn't even recognize the severity of the situation until it was almost too late."

Billy groaned. "So no one is responsible for illness or injury except you?" he said with due sarcasm.

"We watch out for each other," Casey returned, grinding out the words with vehemence. "And I failed."

"You did your best to protect me from further harm," Billy objected. "Which is more than I can say for my actions concerning young Rick."

"Hey," Rick protested. "I'm the one who half-assed this one. I was blind back there, so hyped up on adrenaline and fear that I didn't think things through. I just did things and I put myself in a vulnerable position. I let myself get captured and you all had to risk your lives and the mission to get me out. That's _my _fault."

"You channeled your feelings into rage," Casey countered. "Perfectly reasonable."

"And totally understandable," Billy said. "You should be able to charge ahead and expect your teammates to have your back."

"My point exactly," Casey said.

Billy turned back to him in exasperation. "There was _nothing _you could have done."

"That's what I've been trying to tell you," Casey said.

"That's what I've been trying to tell all of you," Rick said.

They were getting agitated now, all half out of their seats with the force of the argument. They had made their points, and Michael knew it was time to show them how they were right and wrong.

"Okay," he interjected, not harshly but loud.

They fell silent, pulling themselves back in and looking back at Michael warily.

Michael took a breath. "You're all right," he continued. "Billy, your actions with the truck did lead to Rick's injuries and capture. Casey, you didn't step in sooner when we realized Billy was sick and let him get worse unnecessarily. Rick, you were reckless in the field and put yourself in a vulnerable position that nearly compromised the mission."

They looked shocked and chagrined, sullen as they stared at him.

"And you're also all wrong," he said. "I could tell you about my failings. About how I was overconfident and failed to predict Jenkins' actions. I cost Vaughan his life and nearly lost on the most valuable stream of intel we've had in years. I thought I had everything under control and nearly lost my entire team because of it. These are all lessons that matter, but they're not what we should take away right now."

None of them dared to speak.

"The point is, we're not God," Michael said, letting his eyes linger from Rick to Billy to Casey. "We're just spies. Doing the best we can. We can't expect anything more from each other and we shouldn't expect anything more from ourselves."

And that was enough. Sitting there, with his team, it had to be enough. Casey's expression relaxed just slightly, the light returned in Billy's eyes. Rick's lips twitched into a smile and Michael felt the ease of control returning.

That would always be enough.


End file.
